"We will talk of this matter together, you and
me and the daughter."
Tavernake seemed, on his introduction to the household, like a
man unused to feminine society. Perhaps he did not expect to
find such a type of her sex as Ruth Nicholls in such a remote
neighborhood. She was thin, and her cheeks were paler than those
of any of the other young women whom he had seen about the
village. Her eyes, too, were darker, and her speech different.
There was nothing about her which reminded him in the least of
the child with whom he had played. Tavernake watched her
intently. Presently the idea came to him that she, too, was
seeking shelter.
Supper was a simple meal, but it was well and deftly served. The
girl had the gift of moving noiselessly. She was quick without
giving the impression of haste. To their guest she was
courteous, but her recollection of him appeared to be slight, and
his coming but a matter of slight interest. After she had
cleared the cloth, however, and produced a jar of tobacco, her
father bade her sit down with them.
"Mr. Tavernake," he began, ponderously, "is thinking some of
settling down in these parts, Ruth."
She inclined her head gravely.
"It appears," her father continued, "that he is sick and tired of
the city and of head-work. He is wishful to come into the yard
with me, if so be that we could find enough work for two."
The girl looked at their visitor, and for the first time there
was a measure of curiosity in her earnest gaze.
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