me, my dear," responded the old lady. "In the mean time,
rely upon my protection." With this she stood up birdlike, and pecked
affectionately at Ruth's rosy cheek. The girl was well-nigh
crying, but restrained herself, and answered Rachel's "God bless you"
with some self-possession.

"Good-morning, dear aunt. But you are quite, oh, quite mistaken."

"Indeed, my dear," said Aunt Rachel, with a glitter in her youthful
eyes, and a compression of her mobile lips, "I am nothing of the
kind." Ruth's eyes sank, and she blushed before the old lady's keen and
triumphant smile. She moved away downcast, while Aunt Rachel took the
opposite direction. The old lady wore a determined air which changed to
a sparkling triumph as she saw Reuben cross the road with an inelastic
step, and continue his homeward way with a head bent either in thought
or dejection.

CHAPTER X.

When Reuben found time to gather himself together and to face his own
emotions he discovered himself to be more amazed than disconcerted. He
cast about in his mind for an explanation of the old lady's displeasure,
and found none. Why should she desire to insult him? In what possible
way could he have offended her? Even a lover (ingenious as lovers always
are in the art of self-torment) could not persuade himself that Ruth was
a willing party to her aunt's singular treatment of him. The apology in
her glance had been unmistakable.

He was altogether at a loss to understand in what way he could have
excited Miss Blythe's anger, but it was unpleasant to know that there
was an enemy in the camp which he had always thought entirely friendly.
With the exception of Ruth herself he had been sure of the approval of
everybody concerned.

His performance at the homely one o'clock dinner spread at his mother's
table was so poor as to be noticeable, and he had to endure and answer
many tender but unnecessary inquiries as to the state of his health, and
to pretend to listen while his mother related the melancholy history
of a young man who fell into a decline and died through mere neglect of
meal-times. When this narrative was over and done with he escaped to his
own room, carrying writing materials with him, and sat down to express
on paper the hopes he had fully meant to express vocally an hour
earlier. The golden rule for writing is to know precisely what you want
to say, but though Reuben seemed to know, he found it hard to get upon
paper. Half a score of torn sheet