"Mr. Hill is such a good man," remarked Genevieve as she closed the window.
"Miss Billy thinks him full of the darkest evil," commented Ruth. "Why do you shut the window?"
"You were in a draught. After your ride you must be warm."
"I'm a precious object, am I?"
"Yes, dear, you certainly are," replied Genevieve, with all the seriousness of Malachi Hill.
"If that simpleton of a Billy could see the parson eat apples, she would change her opinion about him," remarked Etheridge. "A man who can devour with relish four, five, and even six, cold raw apples (and the Asheville apples are sixteen inches round) late in the evening, cores, seeds, and all, must be virtuous—as virtuous as mutton!" He was looking at Ruth as he spoke. The girl was leaning back in an easy-chair; Petie Trone, Esq., had lost no time, he was already established in her lap, and the squirrel had flown to her shoulder. She had taken off her gauntlets, and as she lifted her hands to remove her hat, he saw a flash. "Trinkets?" he said.
"Oh—you haven't seen it?" She drew off a ring and tossed it across to him.
"Take care!" said Genevieve.
But Etheridge had already caught it. It was a solitaire diamond ring, the stone of splendid beauty, large, pure, brilliant.
"It came yesterday," Genevieve explained. Then she folded her hands—this with Genevieve was always a deliberate motion. "There will be diamonds—yes. But there will be other things also; surely our dear Ruth will remember the duties of wealth as well as its pleasures."