“I am a coward, and I ought to be ashamed of myself,” she thought.  “Now, when I go in and grandfather sees me, he will think he has done quite wrong to let me go to the Shirley School.  I must not let him think that.  And granny will be still more vexed.  I have had my heart’s desire, and because things are not quite so pleasant as I hoped they would have been, it is no reason why I should be discontented.”

The next moment she had lifted the latch at a small cottage and entered.  It was a little better than a workman’s house, but not much; there were two rooms downstairs and two rooms upstairs, and that was all.  To the front of the little house was the tiny parlour, at the back an equally tiny kitchen.  Upstairs was a bedroom for Ruth and a bedroom for her grandparents.  Mr. and Mrs. Craven did not keep any servants.  The moment Ruth entered now her grandmother put her head out of the kitchen door.

“Ruthie,” she said, “the butcher has disappointed us to-day.  Here is a shilling; go to the shop and bring in some sausages.  Be as quick as you can, child, or your grandfather won’t have his supper in time.”

Ruth took the money without a word.  She went down a small lane, turned to her right, and found herself in a mean little street full of small shops.  She entered one that she knew, and asked for a pound and a half of pork sausages.  As the woman was wrapping them up in a piece of torn newspaper, she looked at Ruth and said: 

“Is it true, Miss Craven, that you are a scholar at the Great Shirley School?”

“I am,” replied Ruth.  “I went there for the first time to-day.”

“So your grandparents are going to educate you, miss, as if you were a lady.”

“I am a lady, Mrs. Plowden.  My grandparents cannot make me anything but what I am.”

Mrs. Plowden smiled.  She handed Ruth her sausages without a word, and the young girl left the shop.  Her grandmother was waiting for her in the porch.

“What a time you have been, child!” she said.  “I do hope this new school and the scholars and all this fuss and excitement of your new life won’t turn your head.  Whatever happens, you have got to be a little servant to me and a little messenger to your grandfather.  You have got to make yourself useful, and not to have ideas beyond your station.”

“Here are the sausages, granny,” answered Ruth in a gentle tone.

The old lady took them from her and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Ruth—­Ruth!” said a somewhat querulous but very deep voice which evidently issued from the parlor.

“Yes, granddad; coming in a moment or two,” Ruth replied.  She ran up the tiny stairs, and entered her own little bedroom, which was so wee that she could scarcely turn round in it, but was extremely neat.

Ruth removed her hat, brushed out her black hair, saw that her dress, shabby as it was, was in apple-pie order, put on a neat white apron, and ran downstairs.  She first of all entered the parlor.  A handsome old man, with a decided look of Ruth herself, was seated by the fire.  He was holding out his thin, knuckly hands to the blaze.  As Ruth came in he turned and smiled at her.