At the foot of the hills ran a little river, and now it looked like some ribbon of silver, twining in and out amid the green carpet of the fields.
"Oh, isn't it beautiful—just beautiful!" sighed Ruth.
"Do you mean the odor of that fried chicken?" asked Alice, with a frank laugh, as she let down her hair, preparatory to putting it up again, in the general process of "dressing." "It is delightful; but I would hardly call it 'beautiful.'"
"Oh, you know what I mean!" returned Ruth, not turning from the window which gave a view of the distant hills. "I'm speaking of the scenery."
"Oh, yes, I suppose it is beautiful," agreed Alice, who, truth to tell, was not gifted with a very strong æsthetic sense. "But I suppose Mr. Pertell came here because it was so practical for the rural dramas."
"Beauty counts in them, too," said Ruth, softly. "Oh, just look at the purple light on those hills, Alice!"
"Can't, my dear. I've dropped a hairpin and I can't see it in the dark. Gracious, I never thought! We won't have any electric lights here, and no gas. I wonder if we'll have to go back to candle days."
"They weren't so bad," observed Ruth. "I think it must have been fine in the Colonial days, to have the candles all aglow, and——"
"Candle fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Alice, who could be very outspoken at times. "Give me an incandescent light, every time. It's getting dark here. I wonder what system of illumination they have?"
"Kerosene lamps," replied Ruth. "There's one on the mantel. I'll light it."