Ruth scanned the faces in the friendly brick station. The white head, the features, familiar from photograph presentment, were—not there! But a hand, extended at the last step to help her descend, caused her to turn. Her arms in an instant had flung themselves impulsively about a figure which stood at her side.
“Uncle!” cried Ruth. Her heart ceased to pound, her nervousness gave way to an immense inward satisfaction. Tears sprang to her eyes—but, what did it matter? My heroine would be less charming were she less impressionable and one does not gather upon every bush, an uncle in loco parentis.
“Well, well, my dear!—we've got you here at last, Ruth,” said the tall, thin, old man. He looked down at her fondly, a good face full of kindly scrutiny.
“You've brought belongings of sorts?” General Adgate enquired as he conducted Ruth towards the carriage whilst the young girl felt half a dozen pairs of curious eyes fixed upon her.
“If that's your maid tell her there's a seat for her in the luggage cart near Jobias,” said General Adgate. He handed his niece into the brougham, Paolina received her instructions, they drove off.
IV
And for a moment they sped in silence, up a side street, into an open square of shops and brick buildings, for all the world like the High Street of any English Provincial town.
“But how English it looks!” Ruth exclaimed.
“Does it? Why not?” said General Adgate. “However,” he added, “we pride ourselves, further on, that we're distinctively American.”
The brick buildings surely enough dissolved into avenues set with superb elms. Big comfortable houses encircled by verandas,—many adorned with those fluted Corinthian columns, mark in Oldbridge of the early nineteenth century,—all snugly set back among flower gardens and lawns, emanated peace, prosperity, good will.