"Good-by, Drowsy!"
With that they both scampered away as fast as they could run.
After this interview the acquaintance marched—or rather jumped ahead—with all the velocity of youth. Cyrus passed her house every time he went to the village and interviews were frequent. All discourtesy in their first meetings was forgiven—and forgotten. To his ceremonious salutations, with their astonishing bows, Ruth Heywood soon became accustomed. Also, she ceased being impressed by his judicial gaze, for she soon learned that the heavy lidded eyes concealed neither disdain nor supernatural wisdom. She discovered, in short, that he was just a boy. But he proved neither sleepy nor stupid.
Certain traits, however, quite at variance with those in other children of her own age, made him an object of her special concern. She began to regard him as her own personal property, something to be watched over, guided and protected. Although she had known but six years of terrestrial life, some feminine, kindly instinct was already prompting her to be mother and grandmother to him, also aunt and sister and all the female blessings that he missed at home. He was, to be sure, just about her own age, but he was shorter and less assertive. And there certainly is—at times—a distinct advantage in being able to look down upon the person you are trying to impress.
When Ruth wanted a thing she wanted it very much, and at once. With strangers she always got it. Her beauty, combined with her manner—when she chose—were irresistible, it appeared, to all human males between the ages of ten and one hundred. She could smile the smile that routed reason and paralyzed all powers of resistance. This smile, as she grew older, with the sensitive mouth and conquering eyes, never lost its charm. And the unsuspecting Cyrus was either brave or timid, patient or angry, happy or unhappy, at the witch's will.
Moreover, his mental processes were quite different from those of Ruth. He was slower in reaching conclusions. Her own swift decisions amazed him. She dazzled him at times, by a mysterious intuitive agency whose lightning turns he did not pretend to follow.
Cyrus, more than other boys, was a lover of beautiful things. Flowers, pictures, music, color, all gave him pleasure. In the presence of an American sunset he would sit in solemn adoration. To this lover of beautiful things Ruth's eyes were as windows of heaven. Into them he could look and wonder; quit the earth and imagine all things. They soothed and stirred his fancy like summer skies and solemn woods—or flowers and thunderstorms. And when they rested on him, in reproach, they filled him with delectable guilt.
Ruth and Truth were one and inseparable. Truth was part of herself. Truth and Cyrus, on the other hand, sometimes parted company. And they parted easily. Truth was a good thing—he knew that. But there seemed to be occasions when Truth and Wisdom did not pull together; when the immediate results were disastrous. When those moments came he preferred the exercise of his own wits; the triumphs of his own invention. And his invention was rich and ready.
On one occasion, when rebuked by his father for telling a lie, he replied, after a moment's thought, and with earnest conviction:
"I don't see any fun in telling the truth all the time. Anybody can do it."