Supper was served, and was eaten with considerable relish by all three.

“Now,” said old granny when the meal had come to an end, “you stay and talk to your grandfather—­he is all agog to hear what you have got to say—­and I will wash up.  Now then, child, don’t you worry.  It isn’t everybody who has got loving grandparents like us.”

“And it isn’t many old bodies who have got such a dear little granddaughter,” said the old man, smiling at Ruth.

Mrs. Craven carried the supper things into the kitchen, and Ruth sat close to her grandfather.

“Now, tell me, child, tell me,” he said.  “What did they do?  What class did they put you into?”

“I am in the third remove; a very good class indeed—­at least they all said so, grandfather.”

“I don’t understand your modern names; but tell me what you have got to learn, dear.  What sort of lessons are they going to put into that smart little head of yours?”

“Oh, all the best things, grandfather—­French, German, English in all its branches, music, and Latin if I like.  I am determined to take up Latin; I want to get to the heart of things.”

“Quite right—­quite right, too.  And you are ever so pleased at having got in?”

“It does seem a grand thing for me, doesn’t it, grandfather?”

“Most of the girls are ladies, aren’t they?”

“It is a big school—­between three and four hundred girls.  I don’t suppose they are all ladies.”

“Well, you are, anyhow, my little Ruth.”

“Am I, granddad?  That is the question.”

“What do you think yourself?”

“I think so; but what does the world say?”

“Ruth, I never told you, but your mother was a lady.  You know what your father was.  I saved and stinted and toiled and got him a commission in the army.  He died, poor fellow, shortly after you were born.  But he was a commissioned officer in the Punjab Infantry.  Your mother was a governess, but she was a lady by birth; her father was a clergyman.  Your parents met in India; they fell in love, and married.  Your mother died at your birth, and you came home to us.  Yes, child, by birth you are a lady, as good as any of them—­as good as the best.”

“They are dead,” said Ruth.  “I don’t remember them.  I have a picture of my father upstairs; it is taken with his uniform on.  He looks very handsome.  And I have a little water-color sketch of my mother, and she looks fair and sweet and interesting.  But I never knew them.  Those I knew and know and love are you, grandfather, and granny.”

“Well, dear, when I had the power and the brains and the strength, I kept a shop—­a grocer’s shop, dear; and my wife, she was the daughter of a harness-maker.  Your grandparents were both in trade; there’s no way out of it.”

“But a gentleman and lady for all that,” said the girl.

She pressed close to the old man, took one of his weather-beaten hands between both of her own, and stroked it.