"Ruth Whitman, you ain't goin' off to school without any dinner."
"I don't see as there is anything for dinner but bread and apple-sauce, and I'm sure I don't want any."
"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, actin' so."
"I think there are other folks that ought to be ashamed of themselves. Before I'd go into folk's houses that way—"
"Ruth Whitman, they'll hear you!"
"I don't care if they do. I've got to go, anyway. It's late. I couldn't stop for dinner now if I wanted to."
She went through the kitchen, where Serena now tended the stew, only stopping to take her shawl off the peg.
"Why, you going?" Serena called after her.
"I've got to; it's late," replied Ruth, shortly. She faced about for a second and gave a stiff nod, which seemed directed at the stew-kettle rather than at the Wigginses. "Good-bye," said she. Then she went out.
It was raining with a hard, steady drizzle. Ruth had no rubbers nor water-proof—they were not yet invented. She sped along through the rain and mist. She had to walk half a mile to the little house where she taught the district school, and before she got there she felt calmer.