Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 99, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 April 1916 — RUTH [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

RUTH

By EDITH MILLS HUTCHINSON.

It was three weeks since Jim Kearney had died, leaving a wife and eighteen-year-old daughter, and Mildred Kearney had begun to realize life for the first time. For the first time since she had run away from her father's house in \Connecticut, to become the wife of a wastrel, twenty years before. Those had been bitter years, when her husband’s gambling and unfaithfulness had made all the future hopeless. Jim had drunk, too, but he had not been actively unkind to the street-faced girl of breeding which, instinctively recognizing, he had not had the wit to endeavor to utilize for his own uplift. Jim Kearney was a bad lot, and he made his wife and child wretched. But at length he had come to see the fruitlessness of his life, the impossibility of his dream of elusive millions. He had bought a farm in the Northwest, and died there, leaving the place unpaid for and everything mortgaged. That was the situation that confronted the women. It was after three weeks that Mildred Kearney lifted up her voice to Ruth. “I’m going back, dear,” she said. *Tm going to Connecticut, where I was born. I’m not fit for life here. I want a little place with hills and valleys, and the sight of a brook, where I can spend my last days.” “Grandfather’s dead,” said Ruth. “You know that letter cut us out of ’ his money. He- never - forgave. His son will never forgive. It isn’t as if Harold was your brother. A halfbrother’s different. It’s no use going to him.” “I’m going,” answered the mother. "I’ll work, maybe. I only want a place

•where I can see folks, and be at rest. You’d best stay here and marry that young chap that wants you. I know you don’t love him, but it’s a living, and life's hard, Ruth.” “I’ll go with you,” said Ruth. “There’s money enough for two fares.” “What’ll you do there, Ruth, dear? You don’t know the East. Everything’s different.” “I’ll'go,” said the girl. A week later they descended from the train at the little station, and found accommodations in the inn. Everything had changed in those twenty years. Mildred hardly recognized a single landmark. She did see one or two men, grown old, whom she recognized; but none of them paused to look twice at the two toll-stained, travel-worn women in poor clothes, and Mildred did not reveal herself. She learned that the old squire had prospered in his lifetime; he had added acres to acres, and all the land about Was his, land which should of right have been hers and Ruth’s—in part, at least. “Work? Want work?” echoed the landlord’s wife, looking at the women. “You’re American-born, ain’t you? Lord, how should you find work here? What led you to these parts?” Mildred Kearney parried her questions. She led her to believe that they had relatives in the neighborhood. She would not go to them in her present condition, she said. They wanted to earn a few dollars first. “Well, now,” said the landlord’s wife, her heart warming toward them, “of course there’s work to be had. They’re wanting more women for ber-ry-picking. But, Lord, It’s Syrians, and Italians that they want, not American women. However, I guess Tim Phillips, the boss, will give you a job up to Squire Lathrop’s, if you ask him.” They went to Tim, and the foreman looked at them doubtfully. “Sure, you can start in tomorrow if you think it won't be too hard for you,” he said with a grin. "There’s acres of strawberries to be picked, and heaven knows the berries are rotting on the vines for lack of helpers.” In the morning the mother and daughter came with their big baskets. All day they toiled happily side by side, and each had made considerably It was just sunset when a young mn came riding by on a white horse. He stopped and looked at them. “That’s a good basketful,” he said to Ruth. , “We hope so, air,” said the mother.

The young man looked startled. “You are Americans?” he inquired. “Don’t you find the work hard?” “A little, sir. But it isn’t so hard as on the wheat fields in the Northwest, where we come from.” She could have bitten her tongue out at her foolish slip. The young man looked at her more curiously. Then he looked at the daughter again, raised his hat without replying, and rode on up the avenue toward the house. They watched him. “It’s my nephew, Arthur!” exclaimed Mildred Kearney. "We mustn’t let him know.” "No, mother,” said Ruth. But inwardly she was already indulging in the daydreams of youth. She had had so little realization of any youth. About noon the next day, when they were Intent on their picking, the young man rode up. "I want one of you women to help in the hulling room,” he said rather roughly. “No, not both of you. I think the younger one will do. Probar bly her fingers are nimbler. What is your name?” he added. "Jluth, sir.” “Ruth what?” “Ruth James,” said the mother, catching her child’s imploring glance. And she watched Ruth walk off beside the young squire, who rode at a slow pace stiffly toward the hulling shed. But instead of entering he engaged in a long talk with her. Where did she come from? Did she like the work? Was she used to it?"

Ruth, who had been afraid of him, found that he dropped his harshness of manner as they stood side by side and chatted in the sunshine. And, while she parried his questions she felt that they were equals, that he was' treating her with the respect a man owes a woman. And she dared to dream on. “This work is too hard for you and your mother,” said young Lathrop with conviction. “If you want employment we will get you something easier. How would your mother like to be my housekeeper? My own has left, and I ahi looking for a competent woman. What you tell me convinces me that she is qualified.” “I —I shall have to ask her,” faltered the girl. “I must go now.” And, heedless of his remonstrances, she turned and ran back to her mother. Lathrop’s eyes followed her fleeing figure. He was sorely puzzled —puzzled and pleased. Anyone could see that.

The mother was afraid that all would be discovered. She could not bear the thought of asking charity of her nephew. But the work was sorely needed, and this checked her impulse to fly and take Ruth with her. As it happened, nothing more was said about the housekeeping. Then he began to engage in little chats with Ruth, always with Ruth, as the mother picked near by. It was impossible now for the girl not to see ThatFifeadmired her. In fact, Lathrop never pretended to hide his feelings. The mother watched the growing intimacy with dismay. Then the days came when Ruth grew less communicative. And at last —or the last day of the berry picking, Mildred Kearney, watching the young couple from a distance, saw Lathrop take Ruth in his arms and kiss her. And the girl offered no resistance. “I’ll have to tell him now,” she thought with a sinking heart. “He doesn’t dream that it is his own flesh and blood he is dishonoring.” And she went boldly up to the house. Squire Lathrop was waiting with Ruth in front of the old-fashioned porch. He had seen her coming, and neither attempted to evade the interview. “I’ve something to say to you,” said Mildred Kearney. “Come inside, please,” answered Lathrop, and led the way into the living room. It was as it had always been within her memory. The same writing desk stood in the window, the same old chair in the corner, under the bookshelf, where her father had sat. And all this should have been hers. Tears flooded her face and streamed down her cheeks at the thought that they were beggars, that her nephew proposed to take advantage of a girl whom he considered miles beneath him in station.

“I saw you kiss my daughter!" she flashed out. “Well?” drawled the young man. “You don’t know who she is. You think because we aren’t dressed well, we are common berry pickers, that you have a right to insult her.” “Mother!” exclaimed the girl, with flaming cheeks. “I tell you she is as well born as you are. We shall, leave tonight, and —” “Hold on, Aunt Mildred," said the young squire. And, as the woman stared at him Incredulously, he came quietly toward her, placed his arm around her, and brazenly kissed her too. '‘Haven’t I the right to kiss my own cousin?” he inquired. "You see, Aunt Milly, I knew all about it from the first. In fact, I had a lawyer busy tracing you, and learned you had come east a few days before I recognized you from your photograph. Then I wanted to speak right away, but I knew Aunt Milly had been the proudest woman in Connecticut, and would simply have run away, so—so —forgive me and come home, Aunt Milly.” u _ With that the pride of years was broken. The tears that dimmed her eyes spoke eloquently of the haven found at last, after all those years. And those in Ruth's eyes told also of dreams that might become true. (Copyright, 1918, by W. G. Chapman.)

"I Think the Younger One Will Do.”