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As soon as she could Ruth cornered her mother in the pantry. “Mother, what are you going to do?” said she.

“I’m goin’ to do jest the best I can,” she whispered, severely. “I’m goin’ to tell father an’ Caleb an’ Silas they mustn’t take none of that stew; they can have some bread an’ apple-sauce. I guess they’ll git along.”

“Well, I don’t care,” said Ruth, in a loud voice. “I think it’s mean and a downright imposition on folks, coming in this way, just dinner-time.”

“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. “Good-bye,” said she. Then she went out.

It was raining with a hard, steady drizzle. Ruth had no rubbers nor water-proof–they were not yet invented. She sped along through the rain and mist. She had to walk half a mile to the little house where she taught the district school, and before she got there she felt calmer.

“I suppose I was silly to act so mad,” she said to herself. “I know it plagued mother.”

It was early in the spring; the trees were turning green in the rain. Over in the field she could see one peach-tree in blossom, showing pink through the mist. “I suppose Mr. Wiggins couldn’t work out to-day, and that’s how they happened to come. They could have the horse. But they ought to have come earlier,” reflected Ruth. “There are a good many of ’em for Mrs. Wiggins to get ready,” mused Ruth. “There’s old Mrs. Wiggins and Johnny and Sammy and Mary and Mr. Wiggins.”

By the time Ruth was seated at her table in the school-room, and the scholars were wriggling and twisting before her on their wooden benches, she saw the matter quite plainly from the Wiggins side. She made up her mind that she would behave just as well as she knew how to the Wigginses when she got home. She planned how she would swing little Mary out in the barn and play with the boys, and how she would help her mother get tea.

When school was done and Ruth started for home the rain had stopped and the sun was shining. The rain-pools in the road glittered, and she noticed a cherry-tree in blossom. When she reached home Serena met her at the door.

“Oh, Ruth Whitman!” she cried, “we have had such a time!”

Ruth stared. “What do you mean?” said she. “Where are the Wigginses?”

“They’ve gone. Mrs. Wiggins and old Mrs. Wiggins were dreadful mad. Oh, Ruth, you didn’t do it on purpose, did you?”