Part 7 (1/2)

His tongue was still going very fast, when Mrs. Benson appeared in the doorway, and called to them that tea was ready. Reluctantly the old gardener relinquished his young listeners, who were, however, quite willing to vary the program, for they were hungry. The sight of the pleasant room, neat tea-table, and their genial, motherly hostess, was a very inviting one. In a lull of the conversation, during the progress of the meal, Mrs. Benson remarked, with a sad little smile, that Flora reminded her of her Ruth.

”So she does,” exclaimed her husband. ”I knew she made me think of somebody, but couldn't make it clear who it was.”

”Is Ruth your daughter?” asked Flora.

”She is, or leastways she was,” said Mrs. Benson, heaving a sigh, and adding, in a low voice, ”She's dead now.”

”I am very sorry,” said Flora, with ready sympathy.

”Yes, our Ruth was a fine girl, but a little headstrong. We did all we could to make her happy and contented at home, but it seemed as if we did not succeed, and so, one day she ran off to marry a man we couldn't care for, because we were sure he wouldn't treat our girl kind--not that there was anything against him, but he was so cold and unfeeling. But she wouldn't listen to us, and went off, and we never saw her again.”

”How sad!” said Flora; ”but couldn't you go to see her?”

Mrs. Benson shook her head. ”No; he said we were not to have anything to do with Ruthie, after he married her, and they moved away somewhere, we never knew where, until we heard in a roundabout way that she was dead.”

Here Mrs. Benson paused to wipe away a tear. ”I had hoped she would at least have stayed near home, and been a comfort to us in our old age; but, I suppose it's all right, and for the best. But excuse me for telling you so soon of our great sorrow. I should not have done it. Have you ever heard,” she continued--and soon all were laughing heartily at her quaint sayings.

Flora, however, could not send from her thoughts this sad story. When the pleasant visit was drawing to an end, and they all were bidding Mrs.

Benson good-bye, promising to come again, it still lingered with her. As old Jacob was soberly and deliberately trotting homeward, she revolved it over and over in her mind. Somehow it fastened itself upon her in a way she did not understand, and not until she was home, and had retired to her room for the night, did she arrive at even a partial solution of the perplexing problem. Then it dawned upon her with surprising clearness, that it certainly was because of the similarity of names in Mrs. Benson's daughter and her friend and adviser, Ruth Rudd.

This was very slight ground on which even to build an air-castle, but Flora did not stop to consider that, but in the midst of her dreaming resolved to go the next day, and rehea.r.s.e to Ruth the story she had heard from Mrs. Benson.

Accordingly, next morning, after the work was done, and her mother was seated with her sewing, Flora donned her hat, and went to see her friend, expecting to find her busy as usual. She was, therefore, very much surprised to be met at the door, even before she had knocked, by Ruth herself, whose gentle face wore a troubled, anxious look, and she spoke in a low tone, as she responded to Flora's query:

”What is it, Ruthie?”

”Father is very sick.”

”Oh, I am so sorry! What is the matter? When was he taken ill? Was it suddenly?”

”Yes and no,” said Ruth, answering simply the last question put by Flora. ”He was compelled to stop work yesterday, and come home. He has been in poor health for a long time. I have been afraid, for quite a while, that he would break down.”

”The doctor does not think he will die, does he?” whispered Flora, in an awed tone.

”Yes, he does,” said Ruth, as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her ap.r.o.n.

The two girls, with their arms entwined, and a deep tenderness in their voices, then went into the little kitchen, where Jem sat, holding her beloved kitten close to her for comfort.

”Yes, the doctor says that he cannot last long. But what bothers me is, there seems to be something on his mind, and I can see he is worried.”

”What about? Do you know?” asked Flora, sympathizingly.

”Well, I can guess,” Ruth answered, taking from a work-basket a stocking of Jem's, and beginning to darn it in an abstracted, mechanical way.

”You see,” she continued, ”father married my mother--my own mother, I mean--against her parents' wishes--she was young--and he never would be reconciled to them, because they had objected to him. Neither would he allow them to have anything to do with each other afterward. He was very stern, and it all made mother so unhappy it just broke her heart, I am sure. She died when I was very small. He has told me, since Jem's mamma died, he wished he had tried to pacify my grandparents. But he had moved far away from them, and now, if he should die, he has n.o.body with whom to leave Jem and me. But he was always so proud; and now we shall be all alone,” and she gave a sorrowful little sigh.

”See here, Ruth,” exclaimed Flora, a sudden thought flas.h.i.+ng across her mind. ”What was your mother's name?”

”Ruth, it was the same as mine,” was the reply.