be said about what Aunt Alvirah had told her over night, and she set about smoothing matters over in her usual way.
"You go on and 'tend to your outside chores, Uncle," she commanded. "I'll build this fire in a jiffy."
"Huh! I reckon you've forgotten how to build a kitchen fire—livin' so long in a steam-heated room," he grunted.
"Now, don't you believe that!" she assured him, and running out to the shed for a handful of fat-pine, or "lightwood," soon had the stove roaring comfortably.
"What a comfort you be, my pretty creetur," sighed Aunt Alvirah, as she hobbled down stairs. "Oh, my back and oh, my bones! This is going to be a creaky day. I feel the dampness."
"Don't you believe it, Aunty!" cried the girl. "The sun's going to come out and drive away every atom of this mist. Cheer up!"
And she was that way all day; but deep down in her heart there was a very tender spot indeed, and in her mind the thought of giving up Briarwood rankled like a barbed arrow. She would not give it up if she could help. But how ever could she earn three hundred and fifty dollars? The idea seemed preposterous.
Aside from being with Aunt Alvirah, and helping her, Ruth's homecoming was not at all as she
