gentleman. Yet even then his countenance did not impress her as being
unkindly.

"Jabez Potter's mill," he said, thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir. That is my uncle's name."

"Your uncle?"

"My great uncle, to be exact," said Ruth. "He was mother's uncle."

"Then you," he said, speaking even more gently than before, "are
little Mary Potter's daughter?"

"Mother was Mary Potter before she married papa," said Ruth, more
easily now. "She died four years ago."

He nodded, looking away from her out of the window at the
fast-darkening landscape which hurried by them.

"And poor papa died last winter. I had no claim upon the kind friends
who helped me when he died," pursued Ruth, bravely. "They wrote to
Uncle Jabez and he-- he said I could come and live with him and Aunt
Alvirah Boggs."

In a flash the twinkle came back into his eyes, and he nodded again.

"Ah, yes! Aunt Alviry," he said, giving the name its old-fashioned,
homely pronunciation. "I had forgotten Aunt Alviry," and he seemed
quite pleased to remember her.