"Deary me!" said Aunt Alvirah. "Nobody supposed them frocks would be reckernized—least of all Helen. She meant it kindly, Ruthie. It was kindly meant."
"I wish I'd worn my old black dress to rags!" cried Ruth, who was too hurt to be sensible or just. "I suppose Helen meant it kindly. And you did what you thought was right, Auntie. But all the girls have turned up their noses at me—"
"Let 'em stay turned up—what do you care?" suddenly growled Uncle Jabez.
For the moment Ruth had forgotten his presence and she and Aunt Alvirah had been talking more loudly. They both fell suddenly silent and stared at him.
"Are ye too proud to wear dresses that's give to ye?" demanded Uncle Jabez. "Ye ain't too proud to take food and shelter from me. And I'm a poorer man than Macy Cameron an' less able to give."
The tone and the words were both cruel—or seemed to be to Ruth's mind. But she said, bravely:
"People know that you're my uncle—"
"I was yer mother's uncle; that's all. The relationship ain't much," declared Uncle Jabez.
"Jabez," said the little old woman, solemnly, "you've been a good friend to me—ye've borne with me in sickness and in weakness. Ye took me from the a'mshouse when I didn't have a penny to my name and nobody else to turn to, it seemed. I've tried ter do for ye faithfully. But I ain't done my duty by you no more than this child here has since she's come here to the Red Mill. You know that well yourself, too. Don't blame the pretty leetle creetur for havin' the nateral vanity that all young things hez. Remember, Jabez, that it was through you that she has had to accept clothing from outsiders."
"Through me?" growled the miller, raising his countenance and scowling at the brave old woman—for it took courage for Aunt Alvirah to speak to him in this way.