none of us took any of it, and mother wouldn't tell them the
reason for that. So they just got up and put on their things, and Mr.
Wiggins backed out the horse, and they went home. Mother asked them to
come again, and she'd try and have a better dinner, but they said they'd
never set foot in the house again if they knew it."

"Didn't anybody eat the stew?"

"Nobody but Sammy Wiggins; he ate his whole plateful, saleratus and all,
before anybody spoke."

"Oh dear!" said Ruth; "I suppose mother feels dreadfully. Where is she?"

"She's gone over to Lucy Ann's to help her take care of the baby; he was
real sick last night. I don't believe she'll come home till after
supper. She felt dreadful."

"The Wigginses are dreadful touchy folks, anyhow."

"Course they are. It don't seem as if anybody with any sense would get
mad at such a thing. But they're always suspecting folks of meaning
something."

Ruth looked sternly reflective. She took off her thick dingy shawl, and
got from its peg a bright red and green plaid one that she wore in
pleasant weather.

"Where are you going?" asked Serena.

"I'm going over to the Wigginses'."

"What for?"

"I'm going to ask them to come over here to-morrow and spend the day."

"Why, Ruth Whitman, ain't you afraid to?"

"No, I ain't afraid. I'm going to carry over a jar of the honey--mother
'll be willing--and I'm going to tell Mrs. Wiggins just how it was."

"She won't hear a word you say."

"I'll make her hear."

"They won't come a step."

"You see."

The Whitmans kept bees, and their honey was the celebrated luxury of the
neighborhood. Ruth got a jar of clear white honey out of the closet, put
it under her shawl, and was off. First, though, she instructed Serena to
go out in the garden and dig a good supply of parsnips and clean them
for the next day's dinner.

It was a mile to the Wigginses', and it took Ruth over an hour to
accomplish her errand and return. When she got home she found Serena
getting supper, and her father was washing his hands out in the shed;
her mother had not returned. On the kitchen sink lay a tin pan with four
or five muddy parsnips. Serena looked up eagerly when her sister
entered. "They coming?" said she.

"Yes, they are," replied Ruth, with a triumphant smile.

But Serena walked over to the sink and extended her arm with a tragical
gesture towards the parsnips. "Well, you've gone and done it now, Ruth
Whitman," said she. "There's every si