"Oh, I know how beautiful it is without seeing it," said Ruth, with a sudden shrinking; but she added hastily, "There is no such needle-woman as Sister Angela anywhere."
She followed the Sister into the larger of the two rooms which the house contained. David bashfully stayed behind, lingering on the threshold, and keeping man's respectful distance from the mysteries of feminine wear. But the three white caps and the flower-wreathed bonnet drew close together over the dainty garments, all a foam of lace and ruffles and embroidery. David heard the terms rolling and whipping, and felling and overcasting and hemstitching and herring-boning which were an unknown tongue to him. Ruth praised everything, till even Sister Angela was quite satisfied. That pretty young sister was indeed so elated that she turned to admire Ruth's dress but the Sister Superior gently reminded her that it was the eve of All Souls', when they and every one should be thinking of graver things.
"This year the souls and the safety of the living, as well as the repose of the dead, will need all our prayers," said Sister Teresa. "There seems no doubt of the war with the Shawnees. Ah me, ah me! And the Cold Plague growing worse every day!"
"But Doctor Colbert is curing that," said Ruth, eagerly.
"As God wills, my daughter," said the Sister, making the sign of the cross. "More recover, certainly, since he came. Before, the little ones always died."
"He told me that three babies were coming to you yesterday. Are they here? The poor, poor little things! And may I see them, Sister? I should like to help take care of them, if I might," Ruth said timidly, not knowing that her pink cheeks bloomed into blush roses.
The Sister led the way into the other room—the first orphan asylum in the wilderness—and Ruth smiled and talked to the desolate little waifs of humanity as brightly as she could with dim eyes and quivering lips. She, herself, and David, also, had been like this. He had followed her into the room, and was now standing by her side, so that she could clasp his hand and hold it close.
Walking homeward through the darkening shadows of the forest, she still held his hand. Both were thinking sadly enough of their own coming into this wild country, they knew not—whence or how or wherefore—and were never to know.
"Fathers and mothers must go suddenly when they leave their children so," said Ruth, musingly. "Ours must have died—"
"Or have been murdered!" David broke out fiercely.