Will was her next favorite satellite. A young girl with a winsome, sympathetic face, and hearty manner, can easily become the confidante of a fine fellow of fourteen. Will, with his arm tucked through hers, would saunter around after dusk and tell her all his ambitions.
The soft, starry evenings up in the mountains, where heaven seems so near, are just the time for such talk.
They were walking thus one evening toward the river, Ruth in a creamy gown and with a white burnous thrown over her head, Will holding his hat in his hand and letting the sweet air play through his hair, as he loved to do.
“What do you think are the greatest professions, Miss Ruth?” asked the boy suddenly.
“That’s the way Papa begins,” he interrupted impatiently; “but I’ll tell you what I think is the greatest. Guess, now.”
“Oh, of course; but I’m not good enough for that,--that takes exceptions. Guess again.”
“Well, there are the fine arts, or soldiery,--that is it. You would be a brave soldier, Willikins, my man.”
“No, sir,” he replied, flinging back his head; “I don’t want to take lives; I want to save them.”
“That’s it--but not exactly--I mean a surgeon. Don’t you think that takes bravery? And it’s a long sight better than being a soldier; he draws blood to kill, we do it to save. What do you think, Miss Ruth?”
“Indeed, you are right,” she answered dreamily, her thoughts wandering beyond the river. So they walked along; and as they were about to descent the slope, a man in overalls and carrying a leather bag came suddenly upon them in the gloaming. He stood stock-still, his mouth gaping wide.
When Ruth saw it was Ben, the steward, she laughed.
The man’s mouth slowly closed, and his hand went up to his cap.
“Begging your pardon, Miss,--I mean Her pardon,--the Lord forgive me, I took you for the Lady Madonna and the blessed Boy with the shining hair. Now, don’t be telling of me, will you?”
“Indeed, we won’t; we’ll keep the pretty compliment to ourselves. Have you the mail? I wonder if there is a letter for me.”
Ben immediately drew out his little pack, and handed her two. It was still light enough to read; and as Ben moved on, she stood and opened them.
“This,” she announced in a matter-of-course way, “is from Miss Dorothy Gwynne, who requests the pleasure of my company at a high-tea next Saturday. That, or the hay-ride, Will? And this--this--”