“Now, don’t you fret about it, deary,” said Aunt Alviry, wagging her head knowingly.  “Gals like you has jest got ter hev frocks, an’ the good Lord knows it, jest the same as He knows when a sparrer falls.  There’ll be a way pervided—­ there’ll be a way pervided.  Ef I can’t make ye a purty dress, ‘cause o’ my back an’ my bones, there’s them that kin.  We’ll hev Miss ’Cretia Lock in by the day, and we’ll make ’em.”

“But, dear,” said Ruth, wonderingly, “how will we get the goods—­ and the trimmings—­ and pay Miss Lock for her work?”

“Don’t you fret about that.  Jest you wait and see,” declared Aunt Alvirah, mysteriously.

Ruth knew very well that the old woman had not a penny of her own.  Uncle Jabez would never have given her a cent without knowing just what it was for, and haggling over the expenditure then, a good deal.  To his view, Aunt Alviry was an object of his charity, too, although for more than ten years the old woman had kept his house like wax and had saved him the wages of a housekeeper.

This very day, on coming home from school, Ruth had met Doctor Davison coming away from the Red Mill.  She thought the red and white mare, that was so spirited and handsome, had been tied to the post in front of the kitchen door, and that the physician must have called upon Aunt Alvirah.

“So this is the young lady who wouldn’t stop at my house but went to Sam Curtis’ to stay all night,” he said, holding in the mare and looking down at Ruth.  “And you haven’t been past the gate with the green eyes since?”

“No, sir,” Ruth said, timidly.  “I have never even been to town.”

“No.  Or you would not have failed to see the Curtises again.  At least, I hope you’ll see them.  Mercy has never ceased talking about you.”

“The lame girl, sir?” cried Ruth, in wonder.  “Why, she spoke awfully unkindly to me, and I thought her mother only thought I would feel bad and wanted to smooth it over, when she asked me to come again.”

“No,” said the doctor, seriously, shaking his head.  “Nobody knows Mercy like her mother.  That’s not to be expected.  She’s a poor, unfortunate, cramp-minded child.  I’ve done what I can for her back—­ she has spinal trouble; but I can do little for Mercy’s twisted and warped mind.  She tells me she has cramps in her back and legs and I tell her she has worse cramps in her mind.  Bright!  Why, child, she knows more than most grown folks.  Reads every book she can get hold of; there is scarcely a child in the Cheslow High School who could compete with her for a month in any study she had a mind to take hold of.  But,” and the doctor shook his head again, “her mind’s warped and cramped because of her affliction.”

“I pitied her,” said Ruth, quietly.

“But don’t tell her so.  Go and see her again—­ that’s all.  And mind you don’t come to town without turning in at the gate with the green eyes;” and so saying he let the eager mare out and she swiftly carried him away.