“You are precisely of my mind, Mrs Erskine,” he said, appearing from the recesses of the back parlor, and bowing to Ruth, while he advanced to offer his hand to her step-mother. “You have characterized the recent concerts in the exact language that they deserve. Such singing is not music; it is simply ‘fiddle-dee-dee!’”
“Why, Judge Burnham!”
This, in an expostulating tone, from Mrs. Huntington.
“Fact, my dear Madam. It was simply screeching, last evening; nothing else in the world. I was a victim, and I defy anyone, with a cultured taste, to have enjoyed it. It was almost an impossibility to endure. Mrs. Erskine, I want to show you a picture, which I think you will like, if you will step this way with me.”
And he escorted the gratified little woman down the length of the parlor, and devoted himself carefully to her, during the rest of the very brief call which Ruth made. He came, also, to the very door-steps with her, talking still to the mother, covering with dextrous gallantry her awkwardness of manner and movement.
“Thank you,” said Ruth, in a low tone, as he turned to her with a parting bow. She could not help it, and she did not fail to notice the gleam of pleasure which lighted his grave face at her words.
“Aren’t you tired?” she asked her mother, as they moved away from the Huntington mansion. Her martyr spirit had passed from her. She felt utterly worn, as if it were impossible for her to endure more. “Don’t you want to go home?”
“Bless you, yes. I’m clear tuckered out. I didn’t dream that it was such awful hard work to make calls. I don’t wonder your pa didn’t want to go. Yes, let’s go home, for the land’s sake!”
And they went home. When Ruth thought of Judge Burnham at all, during the next few days, it was with a sense of gratitude, which was new, and not unpleasant.