Though it was still dark, the mill whistle was blowing for six o’clock. Like a goblin horn it sounded ominously through Ruhannah’s dream. She stirred in her sleep; her mother stole across the room, closed the window, and went away carrying the candle with her.
At seven the whistle blew again; the child turned over and unclosed her eyes. A brassy light glimmered between leafless apple branches outside her window. Through the frosty radiance of sunrise a blue jay screamed.
Ruhannah cuddled deeper among the blankets and buried the tip of her chilly nose. But the grey eyes remained wide open and, under the faded quilt, her little ears were listening intently.
Presently from the floor below came the expected summons:
“Ruhannah!”
“Oh, please, mother!”
“It’s after seven––”
“I know: I’ll be ready in time!”
“It’s after seven, Rue!”