the tears.

For Ruth Fielding was by no means one of the "crying kind," and she
had forbidden herself the luxury of tears on this occasion.

"We had all that out weeks ago, you know we did!" she whispered,
apostrophizing that inner self that really wanted to break the brave
compact. "When we knew we had to leave dear old Darrowtown, and Miss
True Pettis, and Patsy Hope, and-- and 'all other perspiring friends,'
to quote Amoskeag Lanfell's letter that she wrote home from
Conference.

"No, Ruth Fielding! Uncle Jabez Potter may be the very nicest kind of
an old dear. And to live in a mill-- and one painted red, too! That
ought to make up for a good many disappointments-- "

Her soliloquy was interrupted by a light tap upon her shoulder. Ruth
glanced around and up quickly. She saw standing beside her the tall
old gentleman who had been sitting two seats behind on the other side
of the aisle ever since the train left Buffalo.

He was a spare old gentleman, with a gaunt, eagle-beaked face, cleanly
shaven but for a sweeping iron-gray mustache, his iron-gray hair waved
over the collar of his black coat-- a regular mane of hair which
flowed out from under the brim of his well-brushed, soft-crowned hat.
His face would have been very stern in its expression had it not been
for the little twinkle in his bright, dark eyes.

"Why don't you do it?" he asked Ruth, softly.