"Ruth!" exclaimed a peremptory voice.
"Yes, sir." Children said sir and ma'am in those days long after they were grown up.
We went through the old kitchen. Jolette was snoring, but covered up head and ears, and the embers covered over likewise. I let Homer out and fastened the door. Then I went back to father. He was leaning on one elbow, his head tousled and his eyes almost fierce, but I did not mind.
"Was that Homer Hayne making a night of it?"
"Yes, father," and I couldn't help a mirthful sound.
"Did he ask you to marry him—the truth, child."
"Yes," and I could not forbear laughing. "But he is in love with Sophie Piaget, only his mother wanted him to—to—"
Then father laughed and gave me a hug.
"Yes, I knew that was in the air, but I thought I'd head it off. Sophie! Well, she will make just the right sort of wife for him. Ruth, chickabiddy, you're too young to get tangled up in such things. You're not to have any lovers for years yet. Do you hear?"
"Oh, father, I don't want any. I couldn't be any happier if I had a dozen."