After Mrs. Thorne had dried her tears she walked to the kitchen, and with her own hands scraped that acid, alkaline mess into the drain.

“Buckwheat cakes are very mysterious and trying things,” she remarked to herself, “but I shall never give up till I can make them like Philip’s mother’s.”

“I find,” said Mr. Thorne that evening, “that I must start to-morrow morning for New York, and will need a very early breakfast.  Let Joanna just make me a cup of coffee.  No cakes, remember,” he laughingly added.  “You may have a whole week to experiment upon them in my absence.”

Ruey watched him down the street in the gray dawn of the next morning as he hurried to the depot, and a bright idea came into her head.

Why not take a little trip on her own account?  She might run up to father Thorne’s; why not be visiting as well as moping here alone?  She wished she had thought of it and mentioned it to Philip, but it was better not; he would probably have thought she could not go so far alone, but what was a day’s journey when it could all be accomplished before dark; then it was going to be a bright day, she could see that by the rosy flush in the east; just the day for a journey.  Besides, Philip could not go to visit them this winter, and how delighted they would be to have her come and break up the monotony of their lives.  She glanced at the clock; only six o’clock; she would have ample time to get ready for the eight o’clock train, the dress she had on would do to travel in—­just slip her black cashmere into her satchel, and she was ready.  Yes, she would go.

Artful Ruey!  Down in her heart she had a secret reason for this visit, that did not come up to the surface with the others.  She wanted to know exactly how Philip’s mother made those cakes.  She could not be happy until she succeeded.  Here appeared an old trait of the girl Ruey—­almost a fault:  settled persistency in accomplishing her ends, a determination to walk over all obstacles, however large.

It took much lively stirring about to accomplish it, but the house was put in order, and Mrs. Thorne reached the depot in time for the eight o’clock train; the happy Joanna being dismissed to her home for a week, after carrying her mistress’s satchel to the depot.  Mrs. Thorne had visited the old homestead with her husband at the time of their marriage, and looked forward with real pleasure at the prospect before her.

“Won’t they be surprised, though, to see me coming without Philip,” and then she smiled to think how she was whizzing along in one direction, and Philip in another, while he thought her snug at home.  There was a spice of adventure about this going off by herself that she enjoyed exceedingly.