"Just so! Well, it's only a step to our house and wife will have
supper waiting. And there's nobody else there save Mercy."

Ruth was a little curious about "Mercy"-- whether it referred to
abounding grace, or was a person's name. But she asked no questions as
they came out of the railroad station and Sam Curtis locked the door.

They did not cross the tracks this time, but went into the new part of
the town. Turning a corner very soon as they walked up what Curtis
said was Market Street, they reached, on a narrow side street, a
little, warm-looking cottage, from almost all the lower windows of
which the lamplight shone cheerfully. There was a garden beside it,
with a big grape arbor arranged like a summer-house with rustic chairs
and a table. The light shining on the side porch revealed the arbor to
Ruth's quick eyes.

When they stepped upon this porch Ruth heard a very shrill and not at
all pleasant voice saying-- very rapidly, and over and over again: "I
don't want to! I don't want to! I don't want to!" It might have been a
parrot, or some other ill-natured talking bird; only Ruth saw nothing
of the feathered conversationalist when Sam opened the door and
ushered her in.

"Here we are, wife!" he exclaimed, cheerfully. "And how's Mercy?"

The reiterated declaration had stopped instantly. A comely, kind-faced
woman with snow-white hair, came forward. Ruth saw that she was some
years younger than Curtis, and he was not yet forty. It was not Father
Time that had powdered Mrs. Curtis' head so thickly.