The sound of the drumming wheels! It had roared in the ears of Ruth Fieldingfor hours as she sat on the comfortably upholstered seat in the last carof the afternoon Limited, the train whirling her from the West to the East,through the fertile valleys of Upper New York State.
This had been a very long journey for the girl, but Ruth knew that it wouldsoon come to an end. Cheslow was not many miles ahead now; she had searchedit out upon the railroad timetable, and upon the map printed on the backof the sheet; and as the stations flew by, she had spelled their names outwith her quick eyes, until dusk had fallen and she could no longer see morethan the signal lamps and switch targets as the train whirled her on.
But she still stared through the window. This last car of the train was fairlywell filled, but she had been fortunate in having a seat all to herself;she was glad this was so, for a person in the seat with her might have discoveredhow hard it was for her to keep back the tears.
For Ruth Fielding was by no means one of the "crying kind," and she had forbiddenherself 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 AmoskeagLanfell's letter that she wrote home from Conference.
"No, Ruth Fielding! Uncle Jabez Potter may be the very nicest kind of anold dear. And to live in a mill—and one painted red, too! That oughtto make up for a good many disappointments—"
Her soliloquy was interrupted by a light tap upon her shoulder. Ruth glancedaround and up quickly. She saw standing beside her the tall old gentlemanwho had been sitting two seats behind on the other side of the aisle eversince the train left Buffalo.
He was a spare old gentleman, with a gaunt, eagle-beaked face, cleanly shavenbut for a sweeping iron-gray mustache, his iron-gray hair waved over thecollar of his black coat—a regular mane of hair which flowed out from underthe brim of his well-brushed, soft-crowned hat. His face would have beenvery stern in its expression had it not been for the little twinkle in hisbright, dark eyes.
"Why don't you do it?" he asked Ruth, softly.
"Why don't I do what, sir?" she responded, not without a little gulp, forthat lump would rise in her throat.
"Why don't you cry?" questioned the strange old gentleman, still speakingsoftly and with that little twinkle in his eye.
"Because I am determined not to cry, sir," and now Ruth could call up a littlesmile, though perhaps the corners of her mouth trembled a bit.
The gentleman sat down beside her, although she had not invited him to doso. She was not at all afraid of him and, after all, perhaps she was gladto have him do it.
"Tell me all about it," he suggested, with such an air of confidence andinterest that Ruth warmed more and more toward him.
But it was a little hard to begin. When he told her, however, thathe was going to Cheslow, too—indeed, that that was his home—it was easierby far.
"I am Doctor Davison, my dear," he said. "If you are going to live in Cheslowyou will hear all about Doctor Davison, and you would better know him atfirst-hand, to avoid mistakes," and his eyes twinkled more than ever, thoughhis stern mouth never relaxed.
"I expect that my new home is some little way outside of Cheslow," Ruth said,timidly. "They call it the Red Mill."
The humorous