letters?" asked Ruth.

"They are villains," repeated Aunt Rachel, ignoring this inquiry.
"Villains, cheats, deceivers. You will rue this day in years to come."
Then, with prodigious sudden stateliness, "I find my advice derided.
My counsels are rebuffed. I wish you a good-morning. I can entertain no
further interest in your proceedings."

CHAPTER XII.

Rachel marched from the garden and disappeared through the door-way
without a backward glance. The girl, holding the crumpled letter in both
hands behind her, beat her foot upon the greensward, and looked downward
with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes. Her life had not hitherto
been fruitful of strong emotions, and she had never felt so angry or
aggrieved as she felt now.

"How did she dare? What can Reuben think of me?"

These were the only thoughts which found form in her mind, and each was
poignant.

A knock sounded at the street door, and she moved mechanically to answer
it, but catching sight of her father's figure in the hall she turned
away, and seated herself at the musicians' table.

Fuller greeted Reuben--for the early visitor was no other than he--with
a broad grin, and stuck a facetious forefinger in his ribs.

"Come in, lad, come in," he said, chuckling. "I never seed such a lark
i' my born days as we've had here this mornin'."

"Indeed!" said Reuben. "Can I--" He began to blush and stammer a little.
"Can I see Miss Ruth, Mr. Fuller?"

"All i' good time, lad," replied Fuller. "Come in. Sit thee down."
Reuben complied, scarcely at his ease, and wondered what was coming.
"Was you expectin' any sort of a letter last night, Reuben?" the old
fellow asked him, with a fat enjoying chuckle.

"Yes, sir," said Reuben, blushing anew, but regarding his questioner
frankly.

"Was that what you took away the book o' duets for, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Didst find the letter?" Fuller was determined to make the most of his
history, after the manner of men who have stories ready made for them
but rarely.

"I don't know," replied Reuben, to the old man's amazement. "Do you know
what the letter was about, Mr. Fuller?"

"Don't know?" cried Fuller. "What beest hov-erin' about? Knowst whether
thee hadst a letter or not, dostn't?"

"I had a letter," said Reuben, "but I can't think it was meant for me.
Perhaps I ought to have spoken first to you, sir, but I wrote to Miss
Ruth yesterday--" There he paused, asking himself how to put this
altogether sacred thin