“Wal,” said Sam Lawson, drooping contemplatively over the coals, and gazing into the fire, “there’s a putty consid’able sight o’ things in this world that’s true; and then ag’in there’s a sight o’ things that ain’t true. Now, my old gran’ther used to say, ‘Boys, says he, ‘if ye want to lead a pleasant and prosperous life, ye must contrive allers to keep jest the _happy medium_ between truth and falsehood.’ Now, that are’s my doctrine.”
“Boys,” said Sam, “don’t you want ter go down with me and get a mug o’ cider?”
Of course we did, and took down a basket to bring up some apples to roast.
“Boys,” says Sam mysteriously, while he was drawing the cider, “you jest ask your Aunt Lois to tell you what she knows ’bout Ruth Sullivan.”
“Oh! you must ask her. These ’ere folks that’s so kind o’ toppin’ about sperits and sich, come sift ’em down, you gen’lly find they knows one story that kind o’ puzzles ’em. Now you mind, and jist ask your Aunt Lois about Ruth Sullivan.”
[Illustration: The Sullivan Looking-Glass, Page 025]
“Aunt Lois,” said I, “what was that story about Ruth Sullivan?”
Aunt Lois’s quick black eyes gave a surprised flash; and she and my grandmother looked at each other a minute significantly. “Who told you any thing about Ruth Sullivan,” she said sharply.
“Nobody. Somebody said _you_ knew something about her,” said I.
I was holding a skein of yarn for Aunt Lois; and she went on winding in silence, putting the ball through loops and tangled places.
“Little boys shouldn’t ask questions,” she concluded at last sententiously. “Little boys that ask too many questions get sent to bed.”
I knew that of old, and rather wondered at my own hardihood.
Aunt Lois wound on in silence; but, looking in her face, I could see plainly that I had started an exciting topic.
“I should think,” pursued my grandmother in her corner, “that Ruth’s case might show you, Lois, that a good many things may happen,--more than you believe.”
“Oh, well, mother! Ruth’s was a strange case; but I suppose there are ways of accounting for it.”
“Oh, certainly, I believed Ruth! Why shouldn’t I? Ruth was one of my best friends, and as true a girl as lives: there wasn’t any nonsense about Ruth. She was one of the sort,” said Aunt Lois reflectively, “that I’d as soon trust as myself: when she said a thing was so and so, I knew it was so.”
