“Why, of course, we all want you to stay. Uncle Peter has talked of nothing else for days.”
“But do you want me to stay, Miss Ruth?”
She lifted her head and looked him fearlessly in the eyes:
“Yes, I do—now that you will have it that way. We are going to have a sleigh-ride to-morrow, and I know you would love the open country, it is so beautiful, and so is—”
“Ruth! Ruth! you dear child,” came a voice—“are you two never coming in?—the coffee is stone cold.”
“Yes, Aunt Felicia, right away. Run, Mr. Breen—” and she flew up the brick path.
For the second time Miss Felicia's keen, kindly eyes scanned the young girl's face, but only a laugh, the best and surest of masks, greeted her.
“He thinks it all lovely,” Ruth rippled out. “Don't you, Mr. Breen?”
“Lovely? Why, it is the most wonderful place I ever saw; I could hardly believe my senses. I am quite sure old Aunt Hannah is cooking behind that door—” here he pointed to the kitchen—“and that poor old Tom will come hobbling along in a minute with 'dat mis'ry' in his back. How in the world you ever did it, and what—”
“And did you hear my frogs?” interrupted his hostess.