Part 8 (1/2)

”None came this way to-day, we could not tell.”

”We are going to close the house to-morrow, Guy, so you need not come home to dinner. We intend going to the woods to find fresh air.”

But Guy didn't like the idea; it sounded common, he thought. Every day he met a lot of women and their babies, with a parcel of brats following them, going over the river or somewhere. ”Why can't you take a week each of you, and go to the country like other people?”

That, ”like other people,” was too much for Ruth, and she said, sharply: ”We can't be what we are not. Beggars must not be choosers.”

Guy replied in as sharp a tone that ”some people liked to make a parade of their poverty,” and finished his dinner in silence. This unfortunate affair threw a damper over the girls, but the children did not come within the shadow of the cloud. Ruth had a sudden angry impulse not to go at all, scarcely knowing why, as it would not spite her brother. But she could not yield to such a thought when the happiness of Agnes and the children was to be considered.

Agnes spoke very little after the occurrence, knowing what state of mind Ruth was in, but she sang in a low voice some of her sister's favorite hymns, and in a little while the cloud rolled away, the sun came out, and the storm was all over. By tea-time Guy and Ruth were as if nothing unpleasant had happened, but there was no allusion made to the pic-nic.

”I wonder how people feel who are going on an extended tour,” said Agnes, as they filled their lunch baskets.

”That depends very much upon the people themselves,” replied Ruth. ”This little trip is giving us more real pleasure than some people would know in travelling all over the globe.”

”Yes, I suppose so; it is the appreciation that is needed, and without that there can be no enjoyments.”

Fortunately, for Guy, he did not see the party set out the next morning, or the shock might so completely have overcome him as to unfit him for any business whatever. But they waited until he had gone, and then they started with their baskets, trowel, and garden-fork.

”People will take us for herb-gatherers, and think these are our children,” said Agnes, gaily.

”Shocking!” exclaimed Ruth, with mock earnestness.

They took the boat for several miles down the river, to the great delight of the children, especially Philip, whose keen eyes took in the smallest white speck of a sail, and then when they had climbed a very little hill, and gone down a big one, they were in the woods.

”What a delightful perfume! Isn't it charming!” exclaimed Agnes, delightedly, as she sat down by a tree to ”enjoy herself.” But the children who had been scampering about, declared there was a much nicer place not far off, and so Miss Agnes, who could imagine no scene more charming, very reluctantly consented to tear herself away.

The spot chosen by the children was indeed lovely. Perfectly level ground covered with the richest moss, out of which rose broad flat rocks, and along side of which, not many yards distant, ran a clear little stream on whose banks the feathery fern grew, and into which it dipped its graceful frond. On the other side of the stream the wood was more dense, but through it a broad path led to a bend in the river.

”We need go no farther,” exclaimed both Ruth and Agnes. ”Nothing could exceed this for loveliness and shade.

”By the river of Babylon there we sat down,” and Agnes once more settled herself.

”There we hung our harps upon the willows,” added Ruth, throwing her shawl on a branch overhead. ”Now, Agnes, let us take it easy and make the most of the day, for such days will be like angel's visits.”

”Well, suppose we rest first. Methinks I could forget myself in sleep.”

Presently Ruth was accosted with, ”I think I know now what I should do if I were rich.”

”What?” she asked.

”Take sick people into the country. That is, if I could afford to keep a carriage. I have been thinking about it since yesterday.”

Ruth knew what had brought it to her mind. Guy's picture of the women and their babies; sick, of course.

”Yes,” she said. ”Many of those who die every year might become strong and well again, if they could be taken from the close, stifling air of their wretched homes into that which is pure and fresh.”

”Nothing could give greater pleasure than to have these poor, emaciated babies and wan-faced women look up at you with a smile, as if saying, 'O how this cheers us.' I wonder if it will ever be?”