So Ruth cleaned her face, taking a peep into the glass in the kitchen to make sure, before going out to her friends.  Tom looked at her with plain approval, and Helen jumped up to squeeze her again.

“No wonder Aunt Alvirah calls you ’pretty creetur’,” she whispered in Ruth’s ear.  “For that’s what you are.”  Then to Tom:  “Now young man, have you the lunch basket?”

“What there is left of it is in charge of Reno down at the bridge,” he replied, coolly.

They found the huge mastiff lying with the napkin-covered basket between his forepaws, on the grass by the water side.  Reno was growling warningly and had his eyes fixed upon a figure leaning upon the bridge railing.

“That there dawg don’t seem ter take to me,” drawled Jasper Parloe, who was the person on the bridge.  “He needn’t be afraid.  I wouldn’t touch the basket.”

“You won’t be likely to touch it while Reno has charge of it,” said Tom, quietly, while the girls passed on swiftly.  Neither Ruth nor Helen liked to have anything to do with Parloe.  When Tom released Reno from his watch and ward, the dog trotted after Ruth and put his nose into her hand.

“Ye been up ter the mill, hev ye?” queried Parloe, eyeing Tom Cameron aslant. “ye oughter be gre’t friends with Jabe Potter.  Or has he squared hisself with ye?”

“Say, Mister Parloe,” said Tom, sharply, “you’ve been hinting something about the miller every time you’ve seen me lately

“Only since yeou was knocked down that bank inter the gully, an’ yer arm an’ head hurt.  There warn’t nothin’ about Jabe ter interest yeou afore that,” returned Parloe, quickly.

Tom flushed suddenly and he looked at the old fellow with new interest.

“Just what do you mean?” he asked, slowly.

“Ye know well enough.  Your dad, Tom Cameron, is mighty riled up over your bein’ hurt.  I heered him say that he’d give a ten-dollar note ter know who it was drove by ye that night and crowded ye inter the ditch.  Would you give more than that not ter have it known who done it?”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Tom, angrily.

“I guess ye like this here gal that’s cone to live on Jabez, purty well; don’t ye—­ yeou an’ yer sister?” croaked old Parloe.  “Wal, if your dad an’ the miller gits inter a row—­ comes ter a clinch, as ye might say—­ yeou an’ yer sister won’t be let ter hev much ter do with Ruth, eh, now?”

“I don’t know that that’s so,” Tom said doggedly.

“Oh, yes, ye do.  Think it over.  Old Jabe will put his foot right down an’ he’ll stop Ruth havin’ anything ter do with ye—­ ye know it!  Wal, now; think it over.  I got a conscience, I have,” pursued Parloe, cringing and rubbing his hands together, his sly little eyes sparkling.  “I r’ally feel as though I’d oughter tell yer dad who it was almost run ye down that night and made ye fall into the gully.”

“You mean, you’d like to handle Dad’s ten dollars!” cried Tom, angrily.