ds.
But, at least, they might be able to direct her to a respectable place.

Mrs. Cameron, too, looked dubious. This having a society girl to
chaperone was new business for her. She had never thought much about it,
but somehow she would hardly have associated the Salvation Army with the
Macdonald family in any way. She paused and looked doubtfully at the
unpretentious little one-story building that stretched away capaciously
and unostentatiously from the grassy roadside.

"SALVATION ARMY" arose in bold inviting letters from the roof, and "Ice
Cold Lemonade" beckoned from a sign on the neat screen door. Ruth was a
bit excited.

"I'm going in!" she declared and stepped within the door, Mrs. Cameron
following half fearfully.

The room which they entered was long and clean and pleasant. Simple white
curtains draped the windows, many rush-bottomed big rocking chairs were
scattered about, a long desk or table ran along one side of the room with
writing materials, a piano stood open with music on its rack, and shelves
of books and magazines filled the front wall.

Beyond the piano were half a dozen little tables, white topped and ready
for a hungry guest. At the back a counter ran the width of the room, with
sandwiches and pies under glass covers, and a bright coffee urn steaming
suggestively at one end. Behind it through an open door was a view of the
kitchen, neat, handy, crude, but all quite clean, and through this door
stepped a sweet-faced woman, wiping her hands on her gingham apron and
coming toward them with a smile of welcome as if they were expected
guests. It was all so primitive, and yet there was something about it
that bore the dignity of refinement, and puzzled this girl from her
sheltered home. She was almost embarrassed to make her enquiry, but the
hearty response put her quite at her ease, as if she had asked a great
favor of another lady in a time of stress:

"I'm so sorry, but our rooms are all taken," the woman waved a slender
hand toward the long side of the room and Ruth noticed for the first time
that a low partition ran the length of the room at one side with doors.
Mechanically she counted them, eight of them, neat, gray-painted doors.
Could these be rooms? How interesting! She had a wild desire to see
inside them. Rooms! They were more like little stalls, for the partitions
did not reach all the way to the ceiling. A vision of her own spacious
apartment at home came floating in vague contrast.