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RUTH FIELDING AND THE GYPSIES
ON THE LUMANO RIVER
The steady turning of the grinding-stones set the old Red Mill a-quiver in every board and beam. The air within was full of dust--dust of the grain, and fine, fine dust from the stones themselves.
Uncle Jabez Potter, the miller, came to the door and looked across the grassy yard that separated the mill and the farmhouse attached from the highroad. Under a broad-spreading tree sat two girls, busy with their needles.
One, a sharp-faced, light-haired girl, who somehow carried a look of endured pain in her eyes in spite of the smile she flung at the old man, cried:
"Hello, Dusty Miller! come out and fly about a little. It will do you good."
The grim face of the miller lightened perceptibly. "How do you reckon a man like me kin fly, Mercy child?" he croaked.
"I ain't got no time, gals, an' that's a fac'," said the miller, his face clouding suddenly. "Ain't ye seen hide nor hair of Ben an' them mules?"
"Why, Uncle," said the second girl, quietly, "you know how many errands Ben had to do in town. He couldn't do them all and get back in so short a time."
"I dunno about that, Niece Ruth--I dunno about that," said the old man, sharply. "Seems ter me I could ha' gone an' been back by now. An' hi guy! there's four sacks o' flour to take acrost the river to Tim Lakeby--an' I kyan't do it by meself--Ben knows that. Takes two' on us ter handle thet punt 'ith the river runnin' like she is right now."
The girl who had last spoken folded the work in her lap and got up agilely. Her movements were followed--perhaps a little enviously--by the gaze of the lame girl.
"How quick you are, Ruthie," she said. When Ruth Fielding looked down upon Mercy Curtis, her smile started an answering one upon the lame girl's thin face.
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