"But I do not propose that they shall come here any more," declared Uncle Jabez, in the same stern tone. "You can drive on, young man. The less I see of any of you Camerons the better I shall like it."
"But, Mr. Potter—" began Tom.
The old man raised his hand and stopped him.
"I won't hear any talk about it. I know just how much these Camerons have done for you," he said to Ruth. "They've done enough—altogether too much. We will stop this intimacy right here and now. At least, you will not go to their house, Ruth. Do as I tell you—go in to your Aunt Alviry."
Then, as the weeping girl turned away, she heard him say, even more harshly than he had spoken to her: "I don't want anything to do with people who are hand and glove with that Jasper Parloe. He's a thief—a bigger thief, perhaps, than people generally know. At least, he's cost me enough. Now, you drive on and don't let me see you or your sister about here again."
He turned on his heel and went back to the mill without giving Tom time to say a word. The boy, angry enough, it was evident from his expression of countenance, hesitated several minutes after the miller was gone. Once he arose, as though he would get out of the car and follow Jabez into the mill. But finally he started the engine, turned the car, and drove slowly away.
This was a dreadful day indeed for the girl of the Red Mill. Never in her life had she been so hurt—never had she felt herself so ill-used since coming to this place to live. Uncle Jabez had never been really kind to her; but aside from the matter of the loss of her trunk he had never before been actually cruel.
He could have selected no way that would have hurt her more keenly. To refuse to let her go to see the girl she loved—her only close friend and playmate! And to refuse to allow Helen and Tom to come here to see her! This intimacy was all (and Ruth admitted it now, in a torrent of tears, as she lay upon her little bed) that made life at the Red Mill endurable. Had she not met Helen and found her such a dear girl and so kind a companion, Ruth told herself now that she never could have borne the dull existence of this house.
She heard Aunt Alvirah's halting step upon the stair and before the old woman reached the top of the flight, Ruth plainly heard her moaning to herself: "Oh, my back! and oh, my bones!" Thus groaning and halting, Aunt Alvirah came to Ruth's door and pushed it open.
"Oh, deary, deary, me!" she whispered, limping into the room. "Don't-ee cry no more, poor lamb. Old Aunt Alviry knows jest how it hurts—she wishes she could bear it for ye! Now, now, my pretty creetur—don't-ee take on so. Things will turn out all right yet. Don't lose hope."