A Colonial Wooing
"Nothing, dear," Ruth replied. "Please try to catch me a fish for supper."
"But I want to know," he whined, in his usual trying way.
"And thee cannot know, so go on with thy fishing."
"Then I'll ask mother when we get home."
"And then I will no more sing to thee, my boy."
"Thee is real ugly to me; I won't catch thee any fish."
"Am I, dear? Well, I am ugly to everybody and feel cross as a bear." And again Ruth looked at the little thread of smoke that curled among the branches of the towering oak by the shop door.
But if ugly in the eyes of her little brother, she was not to others as she stood on the bank of the creek, her stately figure trim as the timid fawns that she often started in the woods, her golden-brown hair that rippled down her back like the laughing waters of a pebbly brook, her clear skin that was slightly darkened by the sunshine to which it was
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