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