And on the child chattered, for a child she was--not yet sixteen--and the only sister among several brothers who had joined with their parents in taking 'choice care' of little Ruth. Yet she was not spoilt; her mother was too sensible to have allowed anything of that kind. Ruth was unselfish, well-meaning, and straightforward, though with some weak points which her sheltered life at home had scarcely yet tested fairly. She was standing at the cottage door--'father' allowed no hanging about the forge or gossip with the neighbours--scarcely in sight herself, but eagerly looking out for her mother, when Mrs. Perry appeared, walking rather slowly up the hill which led from the little railway station. In a moment Ruth's hat was on, and she had flown to meet her mother. 'Yes, love,' said Mrs. Perry, in answer to the girl's breathless, half-unspoken inquiry. 'It's all right. You're to go on Thursday week. And a very lucky girl you are, take it all together. Eight pounds wages, to be raised to ten in a year if you stop on and do well, church and Sunday-school every Sunday, and now and then an evening service if Cousin Ellen can take you; pleasant work and not too much of it, and best of all, a real good kind lady for your mistress.' 'I don't see as how it could be nicer, and not so far from home neither,' said Ruth. 'Why do you say "take it all together," mother? I see no wrong side at all.' Mrs. Perry smiled. 'There's that to most things in this world, I misdoubt me, Ruthie. But I'm rather tired, child. We'll have a talk when I've got my things off, and have rested a little. It's hot to-day, and I've been on my feet a good bit. Cousin Ellen, she would have me to see all there was to be seen--she took me round the fields and showed me the cows and the dairy and the poultry-yard and the gardens. It's a sweet place, though not large of course.' 'Lady Melicent's been there a good many years, hasn't she?' asked Ruth, as they slowly ascended the hill. 'Nigh upon twenty-five. Ever since her husband's death, when she had to leave Bourne Park. She had no son, only Miss Rosalind, who's now Mrs. Vyner; so the Park went to a cousin, and my lady took the Tower House, not caring to stay as a widow too near to where she had been so happy as a wife. I remember her coming--her and Miss Rosalind--as if it had been yesterday. I was a girl of fifteen. Well, here we are, and I shall be glad to sit me down, I can tell you, Ruth.' 'And there'll be a cup of tea for you in half a minute, mother. It's all ready. I set the kettle on when I heard the train whistling--and it's just on the boil now. There's some hot toast too. Father and the boys'll not be in for over an hour; we'll have nice time for our talk.'