“Half wild, bare-footed, ragged. She’s pretty, though.”
“How old is she, Willard?”
“A mere child. Fifteen, I should judge.”
“I shall visit them tomorrow,” declared Ruth.
“Sakes alive! Half wild? I should think she would be—living in that wilderness!” said Aunt Martha, looking up from her knitting, over the tops of her glasses.
“Everything is wild in this country,” said Masten, a slight sneer in his voice. “The people are repulsive, in dress, manner, and speech.” He delicately flecked some cigar ash from a coat sleeve.
Uncle Jepson wrinkled his nose belligerently. He sniffed in eloquent preparation for speech, but Aunt Martha averted the imminent clash by saying sharply:
“Jep, you hop in there and get that ball of yarn off the dining-room table!”
So potent is habit that Uncle Jepson started to obey automatically, Ruth interjected a word, speaking to Masten, and Uncle Jepson’s opportunity was lost.
Silence reigned again until Ruth, who was facing the Calamity Trail, suddenly exclaimed: