"But Tom has been doing better," I said. "This winter he"—
"This winter!" she exclaimed. "Why, just now he is worse than ever."
"Oh, dear," I asked, "what is it now? His father has been so unhappy about him."
"If he'd made Tom unhappy it would have been more to the purpose. Tom's making himself the town talk with that Brownrig girl."
"What Brownrig girl?"
"Don't you know about the Brownrigs that live in that little red house on the Rim Road?"
"I know the red house, and now that you say the name, I remember I have heard that such a family have moved in there. Where did they come from?"
"Oh, where do such trash come from ever?" demanded Miss Charlotte. "I'm afraid nobody but the Old Nick could tell you. They're a set of drunken, disreputable vagabonds, that turned up here last year. They were probably driven out of some town or other. Tom's been"—
But I did not wish to hear of Tom's misdeeds, and I said so. Miss Charlotte laughed, as usual.
"You never take any interest in wickedness, Ruth," she said good-naturedly. "That's about the only fault I have to find with you."