“Come on down, Ruth, and take a walk, will you? Come off your perch.”
The girl of the Red Mill laughed at him; but she did as he asked. “Come on, I’m game.”
“No more walks,” groaned Jennie. “I scarcely cast a shadow now I’m getting so thin. That saddle work in Arizona pulled me down till I’m scarcely bigger than a thread of cotton.”
Ruth and Tom started off to go along the river road, the two who had first been friends in Cheslow and around the Red Mill. There was a smile on Ruth’s lips; but Tom looked serious. Neither of them dreamed of the strenuous adventures the future held in store for them, as will be related in our next volume, entitled “Ruth Fielding in the Red Cross; or, Doing Her Bit for Uncle Sam.”
The other young folks, remaining in the shaded farmyard, looked after them. Jennie jerked out:
“Mighty—nice—looking—couple, eh?”
Nobody made any rejoinder, but all three of Ruth’s friends gazed after her and her companion.
The couple had halted on the bridge. They were talking earnestly, and Ruth rested one hand on the railing and turned to face the young man. His big brown hand covered hers, that lay on the rail. Ruth did not withdraw it.
“Mated!” drawled Jennie Stone, and the others nodded understandingly.
THE END