"
"Ruth Whitman, if you care anything about me, you'll keep still. Now you
get the salt-cup an' go out there, an' put some more salt in that stew.
It tasted dreadful flat, I thought. I jest tasted of it when they drove
in. I've got to get out the other knives."
Ruth caught up a cup with a jerk. "Well, how much shall I put in?" she
inquired, sulkily.
"Oh, quite a lot. You can tell. It was dreadful flat. Taste of it."
But Ruth did not taste of it. She scattered the contents of the cup
liberally into the stew, gave it a stir, returned to the pantry, and set
the cup down hard. "Well," said she, "I've put it in, and now I'm
goin'."
"Ruth Whitman, you ain't goin' off to school without any dinner."
"I don't see as there is anything for dinner but bread and apple-sauce,
and I'm sure I don't want any."
"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, actin' so."
"I think there are other folks that ought to be ashamed of themselves.
Before I'd go into folk's houses that way--"
"Ruth Whitman, they'll hear you!"
"I don't care if they do. I've got to go, anyway. It's late. I couldn't
stop for dinner now if I wanted to."
She went through the kitchen, where Serena now tended the stew, only
stopping to take her shawl off the peg.
"Why, you going?" Serena called after her.
"I've got to; it's late," replied Ruth, shortly. She faced about for a
second and gave a stiff nod, which seemed directed at the stew-kettle
rather than at the Wigginses.
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