Ruth. That was the best she could do.

"Mother," said Rosamond, "I've been thinking. Get grandfather to have
some of the floors stained. I think rugs, and English druggets, put
down with brass-headed nails, in the middle, are delightful.
Especially for a country house."

"It seems, then, we _are_ going?"

Nobody had even raised a question of that.

Nobody raised a question when Mr. Holabird came in. He himself raised
none. He sat and listened to all the propositions and corollaries,
quite as one does go through the form of demonstration of a
geometrical fact patent at first glance.

"We can have a cow," mother repeated.

"Or a dog, at any rate," put in Stephen, who found it hard to get a
hearing.

"You can have a garden, father," said Barbara. "It's to be near to the
parcel of ground that Rufus gave to his son Stephen."

"I don't like to have you quote Scripture so," said father, gravely.

"I don't," said Barbara. "It quoted itself. And it isn't there either.
I don't know of a Rufus in all sacred history. And there aren't many
in profane."