Ruth brought him over the pack of books somewhat unwillingly. He gave a sigh of contentment, drew the lamp a little nearer, and was lost for the time being.
"Now, child," said old Mrs. Craven, "you heat that
plate by the fire. Have you got the pepper and salt handy? Sausages ain't worth touching unless you eat them piping hot. Your grandfather wants his beer. Dear, dear! What a worry that is! I never knew that the cask was empty. What is to be done?"
"I can go round to the shop and bring in a quart," said Ruth.
"But you—a member of the Shirley School! No, you mustn't. I'll do it."
"Nonsense, granny! I'll leave school to-morrow if you don't let me work for you just the same as ever."
Mrs. Craven sank into her chair.
"You are a good child," she said. "All day I have been so fretting that we were taking you out of your station; and that is a sad mistake—sad and terrible. But you are a good child. Yes, go for it, dear; it won't do you any harm."
Ruth wrapped an old shawl round her head, picked up a jug, and went off to the nearest public-house. They were accustomed to see her there, for old Mr. Craven more often than not had his little cask of beer empty. She went to a side entrance, where a woman she knew served her with what she required.
"There, Ruth Craven," she said—"there it is. But, all the same, I'm surprised to see you here to-night."