the barn doors, and Mr. Wiggins
led the horse into the barn. "I hope you 'ain't got wet," Mrs. Whitman
said. Nothing could have exceeded her cordiality; but all the time she
was thinking of the parsnip stew, and how it surely would not go around
now.

Ruth had not followed the others out to greet the guests. She stayed by
the kettle and stirred the stew, and scowled. "I think it's downright
mean for folks to come in this way, just dinner-time," said she to the
uncles, who had not left their chairs. And they gave short grunts which
expressed their assent, for neither of them liked company.

They watched soberly as Ruth stirred the stew, but they did not dream
that there was not enough to go around.

When her mother and the guests entered, Ruth turned around and bobbed
her head stiffly, and said, "Pretty well, thank you," and then stirred
again. Serena helped the Wigginses take off their things. She untied old
Mrs. Wiggins's pumpkin hood, and got her cap out of her cap basket and
put it on for her. She also took off little Mary Wiggins's coat, and set
her in a little child's arm-chair and gave her a kiss. Little Mary
Wiggins, with her sober, chubby face and her rows of shiny brown curls,
in her best red frock and her scalloped pantalets, was noticed
admiringly by everybody but Ruth.

As soon as she could Ruth cornered her mother in the pantry. "Mother,
what _are_ you going to do?" said she.

"I'm goin' to do jest the best I can," she whispered, severely. "I'm
goin' to tell father an' Caleb an' Silas they mustn't take none of that
stew; they can have some bread an' apple-sauce. I guess they'll git
along."

"Well, I don't care," said Ruth, in a loud voice. "I think it's mean and
a downright imposition on folks, coming in this way, just dinner-time."

"Ruth Whitman, if you care anything about me, you'll keep still. Now you
get the salt-cup an' go out there, an' put some more salt in that stew.
It tasted dreadful flat, I thought. I jest tasted of it when they drove
in. I've got to get out the other knives."

Ruth caught up a cup with a jerk. "Well, how much shall I put in?" she
inquired, sulkily.

"Oh, quite a lot. You can tell. It was dreadful flat. Taste of it."

But Ruth did not taste of it. She scattered the contents of the cup
liberally into the stew, gave it a stir, returned to the pantry, and set
the cup down hard. "Well," said she, "I've put it in, and now I'm
goin'."

"Ruth Whitman, you ain't goin' off