Barbara meant—­or meant to be understood that she meant—­that Miss Pennington knew everybody, and belonged among the general officers; Ruth had an instinct that it would only be possible for her to go by an invitation like this from people out of her own family.

“But doesn’t it seem queer she should choose me, out of us all?” she asked.  “Doesn’t it seem selfish for me to be the one to go?”

“Seem selfish?  Whom to?” said Barbara, bluntly.  “We weren’t asked.”

“I wish—­everybody—­knew that,” said Ruth.

Making this little transparent speech, Ruth blushed once more.  But she went, after all.  She said we pushed her out of the nest.  She went out into the wide, wonderful world, for the very first time in her life.

This is one of her letters:—­

DEAR MOTHER AND GIRLS:—­It is perfectly lovely here.  I wish you could sit where I do this morning, looking up the still river in the bright light, with the tender purple haze on the far-off hills, and long, low, shady Constitution Island lying so beautiful upon the water on one side, and dark shaggy Cro’ Nest looming up on the other.  The Parrott guns at the foundry, over on the headland opposite, are trying,—­as they are trying almost all the time,—­against the face of the high, old, desolate cliff; and the hurtling buzz of the shells keeps a sort of slow, tremendous time-beat on the air.

I think I am almost more interested in Constitution Island than in any other part of the place.  I never knew until I came here that it was the home of the Misses Warner; the place where Queechy came from, and Dollars and Cents, and the Wide, Wide World.  It seems so strange to think that they sit there and write still, lovely stories while all this parade and bustle and learning how to fight are going on close beside and about them.

The Cadets are very funny.  They will do almost any thing for mischief,—­the frolic of it, I mean.  Dakie Thayne tells us very amusing stories.  They are just going into camp now; and they have parades and battery-practice every day.  They have target-firing at old Cro’ Nest,—­which has to stand all the firing from the north battery, just around here from the hotel.  One day the cadet in charge made a very careful sighting of his piece; made the men train the gun up and down, this way and that, a hair more or a hair less, till they were nearly out of patience; when, lo! just as he had got “a beautiful bead,” round came a superintending officer, and took a look too.  The bad boy had drawn it full on a poor old black cow!  I do not believe he would have really let her be blown up; but Dakie says,—­“Well, he rather thinks,—­if she would have stood still long enough,—­he would have let her be—­astonished!”

The walk through the woods, around the cliff, over the river, is beautiful.  If only they wouldn’t call it by such a silly name!

We went out to Old Fort Putnam yesterday.  I did not know how afraid Miss Pennington could be of a little thing before.  I don’t know, now, how much of it was fun; for, as Dakie Thayne said, it was agonizingly funny.  What must have happened to him after we got back and he left us I cannot imagine; he didn’t laugh much there, and it must have been a misery of politeness.