Morning and night Ruth, in her little boat, wooed the lisping waters. Often of a morning her mother was her companion; later on, her father or little Ethel Tyrrell; in the evening one of the Tyrrell boys, generally Will, was her gallant chevalier. But it was always Ruth who rowed,--Ruth in her pretty sailor blouses, with her strong round arms and steadily browning hands; Ruth, whose creamy face and neck remained provokingly unreddened, and took on only a little deeper tint, as if a dash of bistre had been softly applied. It was pleasant enough rowing down-stream with Ruth; she always knew when to sing “Nancy Lee,” and when “White Wings” sounded prettiest. There were numerous coves too, where she loved to beach her boat,--here to fill a flask with honey-sweet water from a rollicking little spring that came merrily dashing over the rocks, here to gather some delicate ferns or maiden-hair with which to decorate the table, or the trailing yerba-buena for festooning the boat. But Ethel Tyrrell, aged three, thought they had the “dolliest” time when she and Ruth, having rowed a space out of sight, jumped out, and taking off their shoes and stockings and making other necessary preliminaries to wading, pattered along over the pebbly bottom, screaming when a sharp stone came against their tender feet, and laughing gleefully when the water rose a little higher than they had bargained for; then, when quite tired, they would retire to the beach or the boat and dry themselves with the soft damask of the sun.
Ruth was happy. There were moments when the remembrance of her last meeting with Louis came like a summer cloud over the ineffable brightness of her sky, and she felt a sharp pang at her heart; still, she thought, it was different with Louis. His feeling for her could not be so strong as to make him suffer poignantly over her refusal. She was almost convinced that he had asked her more from a whim of good-fellowship, a sudden desire, perhaps a preference for her close companionship when he did marry, than from any deeper emotion. In consequence of these reflections her musings were not so sad as they might otherwise have been.
Her parents laughed to see how she revelled in the freedom of the old-fashioned little spot, which, though on the river, was decidedly “out of the swim.” It was late in the season, and there were few guests at the hotel. The Levices occupied one of the cottages, the other being used by a pair of belated turtle-doves,--the wife a blushing dot of a woman, the husband an overgrown youth who bent over her in their walks like a devoted weeping-willow; there was a young man with a consumptive cough, a natty little stenographer off on a solitary vacation, and the golden-haired Tyrrell family, little and big, for Papa Tyrrell could not enjoy his hard-earned rest without one and all. They were such a refined, happy, sweet family, for all their pinched circumstances, that the Levices were attracted to them at once. To be with Mrs. Tyrrell one whole day, Mrs. Levice said was a liberal education,--so bright, so uncomplaining, so ambitious for her children was she, and such a help and inspiration to her hard-worked husband. Mr. Levice tramped about the woods with Tyrrell and brier-wood pipes, and appreciated the moral bravery of a man who struggled on with a happy face and small hope for any earthly rest. But the children!--Floy with her dreamy face and busy sketch-book, Will with his halo of golden hair, his manly figure and broad, open ambitions, Boss with his busy step and fishing-tackle, and baby Ethel, the wee darling, who ran after Ruth the first time she saw her and begged her to come and play with her; ever since, she formed a part of the drapery of Ruth’s skirt or a rather cumbersome necklace about her neck. Every girl who has been debarred the blessing of babies in the house loves them promiscuously and passionately. Ruth was no exception; it amused the ladies to watch her cuddle the child and wonder aloud at all her baby-talk.