On this evening of her twenty-second birthday, Ruth seemed to be in her
element. She had donned, in a spirit of mischief, a gown she had worn five
years before on the occasion of some festivity. The girlish fashion of the
white frock, with its straight, full skirt to her ankles, the round baby
waist, and short puffs on her shoulders made a very child of her.
"Who can imagine me seventeen?" she asked gayly as she entered the library,
softly lighted by many wax candles. Her mother, who was again enjoying the
freedom of the house, and who was now snugly ensconced in her own
particular chair, looked up at her.
"That little frock makes me long to take you in my lap," said she,
brightly.
"And it makes me long to be there," answered Ruth, throwing herself into
her mother's arms and twining her arms about her neck.
"How now, Mr. Arnold, you can't scare me tonight with your sarcastic
disapproval!" she laughed, glancing provokingly over at her cousin seated
in a deep blue-cushioned chair.
"I have no desire to scare you, little one," he answered pleasantly. "I
only do that to children or grown-up people."
"And what am I, pray, good sir?"
"You are neither; you are neither child or woman; you are neither flesh nor
spirit; you are uncanny.
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