But Aunt Alvirah caught her hand as she passed swiftly. The old woman
carried the plump little hand to her lips in mute sympathy, and then
Ruth broke away even from her and ran upstairs to her room. There she
cast herself upon the bed and, with her sobs smothered in the pillows,
gave way to the grief that had long been swelling her heart to the
bursting point.

CHAPTER XIII

BUTTER AND BUTTERCUPS

Such little keepsakes as remained of her father and mother-- their
photographs, a thin old bracelet, her mother's wedding ring, her
father's battered silver watch had fortunately been in Ruth's bag.
Those keepsakes had been too precious to risk in the trunk and in the
baggage car. And how glad the girl was now that she had thus treasured
these things.

But the loss of the trunk, with all her clothing -- common though that
clothing had been-- was a disaster that Ruth could not easily get
over. She cried herself to sleep that night and in the morning came
down with a woebegone face indeed. Uncle Jabez did not notice her, and
even Aunt Alvirah did not comment upon her swollen eyes and
tear-streaked countenance. But the old woman, if anything, was kinder
than ever to her.

It was Saturday, and butter day. Uncle Jabez owned one cow, and since
Ruth had come to the mill it was her work twice a week to churn the
butter. The churn was a stone crock with a wooden dasher and Ruth had
just emptied in the thick cream when Helen Cameron ran in.