“Why don’t you do it?” he asked Ruth, softly.

“Why don’t I do what, sir?” she responded, not without a little gulp, for that lump would rise in her throat.

“Why don’t you cry?” questioned the strange old gentleman, still speaking softly and with that little twinkle in his eye.

“Because I am determined not to cry, sir,” and now Ruth could call up a little smile, though perhaps the corners of her mouth trembled a bit.

The gentleman sat down beside her, although she had not invited him to do so.  She was not at all afraid of him and, after all, perhaps she was glad to have him do it.

“Tell me all about it,” he suggested, with such an air of confidence and interest that Ruth warmed more and more toward him.

But it was a little hard to begin.  When he told her, however, that he was going to Cheslow, too—­ indeed, that that was his home—­ it was easier by far.

“I am Doctor Davison, my dear,” he said.  “If you are going to live in Cheslow you will hear all about Doctor Davison, and you would better know him at first-hand, to avoid mistakes,” and his eyes twinkled more than ever, though his stern mouth never relaxed.

“I expect that my new home is some little way outside of Cheslow,” Ruth said, timidly.  “They call it the Red Mill.”

The humorous light faded out of the dark, bright eyes of the gentleman.  Yet even then his countenance did not impress her as being unkindly.

“Jabez Potter’s mill,” he said, thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir.  That is my uncle’s name.”

“Your uncle?”

“My great uncle, to be exact,” said Ruth.  “He was mother’s uncle.”

“Then you,” he said, speaking even more gently than before, “are little Mary Potter’s daughter?”

“Mother was Mary Potter before she married papa,” said Ruth, more easily now.  “She died four years ago.”

He nodded, looking away from her out of the window at the fast-darkening landscape which hurried by them.

“And poor papa died last winter.  I had no claim upon the kind friends who helped me when he died,” pursued Ruth, bravely.  “They wrote to Uncle Jabez and he—­ he said I could come and live with him and Aunt Alvirah Boggs.”

In a flash the twinkle came back into his eyes, and he nodded again.

“Ah, yes!  Aunt Alviry,” he said, giving the name its old-fashioned, homely pronunciation.  “I had forgotten Aunt Alviry,” and he seemed quite pleased to remember her.

“She keeps house for Uncle Jabez, I understand,” Ruth continued.  “But she isn’t my aunt.”

“She is everybody’s Aunt Alviry, I think,” said Doctor Davison, encouragingly.

For some reason this made Ruth feel better.  He spoke as though she would love Aunt Alviry, and Ruth had left so many kind friends behind her in Darrowtown that she was glad to be assured that somebody in the new home where she was going would be kind, too.