“I repeat,” said the old lady, “the ruinous course upon which you have entered. These men are villains.”
“Do they steal other people's letters?” asked Ruth.
“They are villains,” repeated Aunt Rachel, ignoring this inquiry. “Villains, cheats, deceivers. You will rue this day in years to come.” Then, with prodigious sudden stateliness, “I find my advice derided. My counsels are rebuffed. I wish you a good-morning. I can entertain no further interest in your proceedings.”
CHAPTER XII.
Rachel marched from the garden and disappeared through the door-way without a backward glance. The girl, holding the crumpled letter in both hands behind her, beat her foot upon the greensward, and looked downward with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. Her life had not hitherto been fruitful of strong emotions, and she had never felt so angry or aggrieved as she felt now.
“How did she dare? What can Reuben think of me?”
These were the only thoughts which found form in her mind, and each was poignant.
A knock sounded at the street door, and she moved mechanically to answer it, but catching sight of her father's figure in the hall she turned away, and seated herself at the musicians' table.
Fuller greeted Reuben—for the early visitor was no other than he—with a broad grin, and stuck a facetious forefinger in his ribs.