“Yes, I do--now that you will have it that way. We are going to have a sleigh-ride to-morrow, and I know you would love the open country, it is so beautiful, and so is--” “Ruth! Ruth! you dear child,” came a voice--“are you two never coming in?--the coffee is stone cold.” “Yes, Aunt Felicia, right away. Run, Mr. Breen--” and she flew up the brick path. For the second time Miss Felicia's keen, kindly eyes scanned the young girl's face, but only a laugh, the best and surest of masks, greeted her. “He thinks it all lovely,” Ruth rippled out. “Don't you, Mr. Breen?” “Lovely? Why, it is the most wonderful place I ever saw; I could hardly believe my senses. I am quite sure old Aunt Hannah is cooking behind that door--” here he pointed to the kitchen--“and that poor old Tom will come hobbling along in a minute with 'dat mis'ry' in his back. How in the world you ever did it, and what--” “And did you hear my frogs?” interrupted his hostess. “Of course he didn't, Felicia,” broke in Peter. “What a question to ask a man! Listen to the croakings of your miserable tadpoles with the prettiest girl in seven counties--in seven States, for that matter--sitting beside him! Oh!--you needn't look, you minx! If he heard a single croak he ought to be ducked in the puddle--and then packed off home soaking wet.” “And that is what he is going to do himself,” rejoined Ruth, dropping into a chair which Peter had drawn up for her. “Do what!” cried Peter. “Pack himself off--going by the early train--nothing I can do or say has made the slightest impression on him,” she said with a toss of her head. Jack raised his hands in protest, but Peter wouldn't listen. “Then you'll come back, sir, on Saturday and stay until Monday, and then we'll all go down together and you'll take Ruth across the ferry to her father's. “Thank you, sir, but I am afraid I can't. You see, it all depends on the work--” this last came with a certain tone of regret. “But I'll send MacFarlane a note, and have you detailed as an escort of one to bring his only daughter----” “It would not do any good, Mr. Grayson.” “Stop your nonsense, Jack--” Peter called him so now--“You come back for Sunday.” These days with the boy were the pleasantest of his life. “Well, I would love to--” Here his eyes sought, Ruth--“but we have an important blast to make, and we are doing our best to get things into shape before the week is out.” “Well, but suppose it isn't ready?” demanded Peter. “But it will be,” answered Jack in a more positive tone; this part of the work was in his hands. “Well, anyhow, send me a telegram.” “I will send it, sir, but I am afraid it won't help matters. Miss Ruth knows how delighted I would be to return here and see her safe home.”