That Ruth meant all she said was soon made clear to Cyrus—very clear indeed. Two days later—after giving her time to recover—he came to her aunt's house with a little bouquet of flowers, hopefully gathered by his own hands in his own garden. With it was a note, an eloquent little plea for forgiveness, so humble and so sincere as to soften a heart of granite. He knocked at the front door, and waited. At last—it might have been a year that he waited—the door was opened.
"Good morning, Stella."
"Good morning, Cyrus."
Stella was the daughter of Abner Phillips, the harness maker, and she and Ruth and Cyrus had been playmates together in the old days at the red school house. The little harness business had suffered—even more than other things—with the decline of Longfields, and had finally expired. Stella had been out at service for the last few years. She was an angular maiden with thin lips and sharp eyes.
"Will you please take this note and the flowers to Ruth, Stella, and ask if I can see her?"
"Yes, of course, won't you come in?"
"No, thank you. I'll just wait here."
On the doorstep he waited, but not long; Stella quickly returned with the note and the flowers.
She seemed embarrassed. "Ruth says she—she——"