What could possibly happen to her, Ruth could not imagine. She was not really afraid of Uncle Jabez. She walked directly to him, as he stood there, staring gloomily, in front of the Red Mill. He was not only tall and stoop-shouldered, and very dusty; but his dusty eyebrows almost met over his light blue eyes. He was lantern-jawed, and it did seem as though his dry, shaven lips had never in all his life wrinkled into a smile. His throat was wrinkled and scraggy and his head was plainly very bald on top, for the miller's cap he wore did not entirely cover the bald spot. "I am Ruth Fielding, from Darrowtown," she said, in a voice that she controlled well. "I have come to--to live with you, Uncle Jabez." "Where was you last night?" demanded the miller, without so much as returning her greeting. "Was you with them Camerons?" "I stayed all night with the station master," she said, in explanation. "What time did you get to the station?" Ruth told him. Never once did his voice change or his grim look relax. "I mistook the time of the train," he said, without expressing any sorrow. "I--I hope you will be glad to have me come," the said. "Miss True--" "You mean that old maid that wrote to me?" he asked, harshly. "Miss True Pettis. She said she thought you would like to have me here as we were so near related." "Not so near related as some," was all he said in reply to this. After a moment, he added: "You can go along to the house yonder. Aunt Alviry will show you what to do." Ruth could not have said another word just then without breaking down and weeping, so she only nodded and turned to walk up a path toward the house door. "One thing," urged the old man, before she had gone far. She turned to look at him and he continued: "One thing I want you to understand, if you live here you have got to work. I don't like no laggards around me." She could only nod again, for her heart seemed to be right in her throat, and the sting of the tears she wanted to shed, but could not, almost blinded her as she went on slowly to the house door. CHAPTER VII AUNT ALVIRAH'S BACK AND BONES Ruth came to the kitchen door and found that the lower half was closed; but she could see over the upper panel that had been flung wide to let in the sweet Spring air and sunlight. A little old woman was stooping to brush the rag carpet with a whisk broom and dustpan, and as she hobbled around the big stove and around the table, which was already set neatly for dinner, she was crooning to herself: "Oh, my back and oh, my bones! Oh, my back and oh, my bones!" She was a very neat-looking old lady, with a kerchief crossed on her breast in the style of the old-fashioned Quakeresses. She was not much taller than Ruth herself, for when she stood upright--or as upright as she could stand--her eyes were just about on a level with Ruth's eyes looking in over the half door.