"Mr. Potter is considered a good miller," said Helen, again; "and he
does not neglect his property. He is not miserly in that way. There
isn't a picket off the fence, or a hinge loose anywhere. He isn't at
all what you consider a miser must be and look like; yet he is always
hoarding money and never spends any. But indeed I do not tell you this
to trouble you, Ruthie. I want you to believe, my dear, that if you
can't stand it at Mr. Potter's you can stand it at Mr. Cameron's-- and
you'll be welcome there.

"Our mother is dead. We talk of her a good deal, just as though she
were living and had gone on a little journey somewhere, and we should
see her again soon. God took her when Tom and I were only a few weeks
old; but Daddy has made himself our playfellow and dear, dear friend;
and there has always been Nurse Babette and Mrs. Murchiston-- at
least, Mrs. Murchiston has been with us since we can remember. But
what Daddy says is law, and he said this morning that he'd like to
have a girl like you come to our house to be company for me. It gets
lonely for me sometimes, you see, for Tom doesn't want to play with
girls much, now he is so big. Perhaps next fall I'll go away to
boarding school-- won't that be fun?"

"It will be fun for you, I hope, Helen," said Ruth, with rather a
wistful smile. "I don't know where I shall go to school."

"There is your uncle now!" exclaimed Miss Cameron. "See that man in
the old dusty suit?"

Ruth had already seen the tall, stoop-shouldered figure, who looked as
though he had been powdered with flour, coming down the short path