spoon, while her mother stirred the stew
carefully to be sure that it was not burning on the bottom of the
kettle. Her sister Serena was paring apples and playing with the cat,
and her father and her uncles Caleb and Silas sat before the fire
smoking, sniffing the stew, and watching solemnly. The uncles had just
come in, and proposed staying to dinner.

Mrs. Whitman squinted anxiously at the stew as she stirred it. She
feared that there was not enough for dinner, now there were two more to
eat.

"I'm dreadful afraid there ain't enough of that stew to go round," she
whispered to Ruth in the pantry.

"Oh, I guess it'll do," said Ruth.

"Well, I dun know about it. Your father an' Caleb an' Silas are dreadful
fond of parsnip stew, an' I do hate to have 'em stinted."

"Well, I won't take any," said Ruth. "I don't care much about it."

"Well, I don't want a mouthful," rejoined her mother. "Mebbe we can make
it do. Caleb an' Silas don't have a good hot dinner very often, an' I do
want them to have enough, anyway."

Caleb and Silas Whitman were old bachelors, living by themselves in the
old Whitman homestead about a mile away, and their fare was understood
to be forlorn and desultory. To-day they watched with grave complacency
while their sister-in-law cooked the stew.

Over on the other side of the kitchen the table was set out with the
pewter plates and the blue dishes. The stew was almost done, Mrs.
Whitman was just about to dip out the slices of pork into the dish that
Ruth held, when there was a roll of wheels out in the yard, and a great
shadow passed over the kitchen floor.

"Mother, it's the Wigginses!" said Ruth, in a terrified whisper.

"Good gracious!" sighed her mother; "they've come to dinner."

Everybody stared for a second; then Mrs. Whitman recovered herself.
"Father, you go out an' help them put the horse up. Don't sit there any
longer."

Then she threw open the door, and thrust her large handsome face out
into the rain. "Why, how do you do, Mis' Wiggins?" said she, and she
smiled beamingly.

[Illustration: "A PARSNIP STEW"]

The wagon looked full of faces. On the front seat were a large man and
two little boys; out of the gloom in the rear peered two women and a
little girl. They were Mr. Wiggins, his wife and three children, and his
mother. They were distant relatives of Mrs. Whitman's; they often came
over to spend the day, and always unannounced.

Mr. Whitman came out clumsily and opened