Mrs. Ruggles and her late husband were pioneers in the Crawfish Valley.  Subsequent settlers knew little, and apparently cared less, about her.  They knew, however, that she had been a Peables, and that Peables blood was still doing its duty in her veins.  And from her independence and reserve they argued that the Peableses must have been “high up”—­at least in the estimation of Mrs. Ruggles.  After Mr. Ruggles had been overcome by malaria in clearing the creek bottoms the pride of the Peables blood had sustained her in a long, brave fight with circumstances.

It was while he lay one night upon his deathbed, mistaking a watching neighbor for his wife, that he started up, saying, “Becky, if I could prove it to you afore I died!”

“Out of his head,” was the quiet remark of Mrs. Ruggles to the watching neighbor by the bedside.  There was no further sign of delirium.  That exclamation of the dying Mr. Ruggles was a mystery to the women of Crawfish Creek, and remains so to this day.

It may be that the pride of Mrs. Ruggles was in excess of her wisdom.  It may be if that pride had been a little more respected by the irreverent Crawfish settlers, they would not have had occasion to wonder, as they did wonder, how a heart so true, an honesty so stoical, a discrimination so acute could exist with an independence so absurd, a mind so uncultured, a sense of dignity so ridiculous as were found united in her character.  It may be that the Peables blood was worthy of receiving honor as great as the ridicule it did receive.  It may be if the world had known the Peableses it would have been as proud of them as she was.

She was a person of scrupulous neatness, careful never to be seen by strangers except in a tidy dress, and with her hair in a Grecian knot, gracefully secured by a leather string and a wooden peg.  “Weak creepings” were her main reliance in the way of disease.  She was also troubled, at times, with a “fullness of the head.”  In addition, there were other times when her right side “felt separate.”  But she seldom complained of anything belonging to herself.  Even her maladies, she took pleasure in knowing, were very different from those enjoyed by certain other women.  Unwilling to be too familiar with any one baser than a Ruggles, she usually dined, as she lived, alone with her noble son.

On a certain summer evening she stirred her tea a long time in silence.  She stirred it vigorously, creating a maelstrom inside her cup, where, very like a whale in the story-books, a little crust of bread disappeared and reappeared, and sailed round and round as if very much perplexed.  Then she unconsciously reversed the current of the maelstrom, sending the baked and buttered whale to the bottom.

[Illustration:  “She smilingly waited a moment for the composure of the young naturalist’s feelings.”]