“Dear mamma,”she thought, with a pang of homesickness, “I wish she were here now.” This reflection only made her more lonely, and to overcome the feeling she turned to the more material and attractive tree.
“I could climb that tree easily enough,” she said,”and there’s no one to know anything about it. Even mamma would not mind that much. Besides, I could see papa from a greater distance and I’ll get him some cherries for his tea.”
These last two considerations were sufficient to counterbalance the idea of maternal disapproval. So Ruth turned up the skirt of her dress, pinned it so that it would not be stained, and five minutes later was scrambling up the tree. Higher and higher she went up, feeling the old exhilaration of childhood as she climbed. What a fine view there was from her perch! the rolling hills, the green low-grounds, the winding river, the blue mountains behind and, away to the eastward, the level of the tide-water country almost as blue at the horizon as the mountains to the westward. How still it was too! Every sound was distinct: the lowing of a cow far away toward Red Rock, the notes of a thrush in a thicket, and the chirp of a sparrow in an old tree. Ruth wished she could have described it as she saw it, or, rather, as she felt it, for it was more feeling than seeing, she thought. But the best cherries were out toward the ends of the limbs, so she secured a safe position and set to work, gathering them. She was so engrossed in this occupation that she forgot everything else until she heard the trampling of a horse’s feet somewhere. It was quite in a different direction from that in which she expected her father, but supposing that it was he, Ruth gave a little yodel, with which she often greeted him when at a distance, and climbed out on a limb that she might look down and see him. How astonished and amused he would be, she thought. Yes, there he was, coming around the slope just below her, but how was he going to get across the ditch? If only that bough were not in the way! Ah! now she had the bough and could pull it aside. Heavens! it was a stranger, and he was near enough for her to see that he was a young man. What should she do? Suppose he should have heard her! At the moment she looked he was putting his horse at the ditch—a splendid jump it was. She let the bough go and edged in toward the body of the tree, listening and half seeing the rider below through the leaves as he galloped up into the yard. Perhaps he had not seen her? She crouched down. It was a vain hope, for the next instant he turned his horse’s head toward the tree and drew him in almost under her.
“I say—Is anyone at home?” he asked. The voice was a very deep and pleasant one. Although Ruth was sure he was speaking to her, she did not answer.
“I say, little girl, are Colonel Welch and his daughter at home?”
This time he looked up. So Ruth answered. No, they were not at home. Her voice sounded curiously quavering.
“Ah! I’m very sorry. When will they be at home? Can you tell me?”
“Ah! ur—not exactly,” quavered Ruth, crouching still closer to the tree-trunk and gathering in her skirts.
“You have some fine cherries up there!”