“Susan,” said her father, to the third figure, who was still over by the door, engaged in counting the shawl-straps and satchels. “This is my daughter Ruth.”
There was an air of ownership about this sentence, which was infinitely helpful to Ruth. What if he had said, “This is your sister Ruth?” She gave her hand. A cold hand it was, and she felt it tremble; but, even in that supreme moment, she noticed that Susan’s hair was what, in outspoken language, would be called red; and that she was taller than accorded with grace, and her wrap, falling back from its confinings, showed her dress to be short-waisted, and otherwise ill-fitting. Long afterward Ruth smiled, as she thought of taking in such details at such a moment.
It transpired that there was still another stranger awaiting introduction—a gentleman, tall and grave, and with keen gray eyes, that seemed looking through this family group, and drawing conclusions.
“My daughter, Judge Burnham.” This was Judge Erskine’s manner of introduction. For the time, at least, he ignored the fact that he had any other daughter. Very little attention did the daughter bestow on Judge Burnham; eyes and wits were on the alert elsewhere. Here were these new people to be gotten to their rooms, and then gotten down again; and there was that awful supper-table to endure! She gave herself to the business of planning an exit.
“Father, you want to go directly to your rooms, I suppose? I have rung for Thomas, to attend to Judge Burnham, and I will do the honors of the house for Susan.”
Very carefully trained were face and tone. Beyond a certain curious poise of head, which those who knew her understood betokened a strong pressure of self-control, there was nothing unusual. Really, the worst for her was to come. If she could but have made herself feel that to send a servant with this new sister would be the proper thing to do, it would have been so much easier. But for the watchful eyes and commenting tongue of that same servant she would have done it. But she sternly resolved that everything which, to the servant’s eyes, would look like formality, or like hospitality extended simply to guests, should be dispensed with. It would do to ring for Thomas, to attend Judge Burnham; but a daughter of the house must have no other escort than herself. On the way up-stairs she wondered what she should say when the room door closed on them both. Here, in the hall, it was only necessary to ask which satchel should go up immediately, and which trunk went to which room. But, when all the business was settled, what then?
She began the minute the attending servant deposited the satchels, and departed:
“Do you need to make any change in dress before tea, and can I assist you in any way?”
For answer, the young girl thus addressed turned toward her earnest gray eyes—eyes that were full of some strong feeling that she was holding back—and said, with eager, heartful tones:
“I am just as sorry for you as I can be. If there is any way in which I can help to make the cross less heavy, I wish you would tell me what it is.”