“Pooh!  I’d never worry over the possession of so much money,” said Helen.  “Not I!  What does it matter how you got it?  But you don’t tell us what your Uncle Jabez thinks about it.”

“I can’t,” responded Ruth, demurely.

“Why not?”

“Because Uncle Jabez has expressed no opinion—­beyond his usual grunt.  It doesn’t really matter how the dear man feels,” pursued Ruth Fielding, earnestly.  “I know how I feel about it.  I am no longer a ’charity child’——­”

“Oh, Ruthie! you never were that,” Helen hastened to say.

“Oh, yes I was.  When I first came to the Red Mill you know Uncle Jabez only took me in because I was a relative and he felt that he had to.”

“But you helped save him a lot of money,” cried Helen.  “And there was that Tintacker Mine business.  If you hadn’t chanced to find The Fox’s brother out there in the wilds of Montana, and nursed him back to health, your uncle would never have made a penny in that investment.”

Helen might have gone on with continued vehemence, had not Ruth stopped her by saying: 

“That makes no difference in my feelings, my dear.  Each quarter Uncle Jabez has had to pay out a lot of money to Mrs. Tellingham for my tuition.  And he has clothed me, and let me spend money going about with you ’richer folks,’” and Ruth laughed rather ruefully.  “I feel that I should not have allowed him to do it.  I should have remained at the Red Mill and helped Aunt Alvirah——­”

“Pooh!  Nonsense!” ejaculated Tom, as the spark ignited and the engine began to rumble.

“You shouldn’t be so popular, Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill,” chanted Helen, leaning over to kiss her chum’s flushed cheek.

“Look out for the barberries!” cried Ruth.

“I reckon you don’t want to spill them, after working so hard to get them,” Tom said, as the automobile lurched forward.

“I certainly do not,” Ruth admitted.  “I scratched my hands all up getting the bucket full.  Just fancy finding barberries still clinging to the bushes in such quantities this time of the year.”

“What good are they?” queried Helen, selecting one gingerly and putting it into her mouth.

“Oh!  Aunt Alvirah makes the loveliest pies of them—­with huckleberries, you know.  Half and half.”

“Where’ll you find huckleberries this time of year?” scoffed Tom.  “On the bushes too?”

“In glass jars down cellar, sir,” replied Ruth, smartly.  “I did help pick those and put them up last summer, in spite of all the running around we did.”

“Beg pardon, Miss Fielding,” said Tom.  “Go on.  Tell us some more recipes.  Makes my mouth water.”

“O-o-oh! so will these barberries!” exclaimed Helen, making a wry face.  “Just taste one, Tommy.”

“Many, many thanks! Good-night!” ejaculated her brother, “I know better.  But those barberries properly prepared with sugar make a mighty nice drink in summer.  Our Babette makes barberry syrup, you know.”