By-and-by Ruth was old enough to understand; and then she wanted to know
who her papa was, and why he never came home as Masie Morrow's did. At
this her mother would be terrified, and clasping her treasure close,
would tell her she must never ask about her papa; he was a dreadful man.

"Like Jack, the Giant-killer, mumzie?"

"Oh, my dearie, he is a great deal worse."

Again Ruth said; "I know, mumzie, my papa is a great black thing like
the pictures on the circus papers!"

So it came to pass that Miss Ruth fell to thinking about her father till
it got to be a sort of mania with her--wondering and wondering what it
all meant. Her life was secluded, but she was fondly attached to her
grandparents and to a number of friends who were received at the house,
while her mother was most tenderly enshrined in the faithful little
heart.

The mother had a comfortable income, and provided her little girl with
the best masters. She was a quaint, white-faced, solemn-eyed creature,
as she had been from the first. She said "old" things, her black nurse
declared, and she knew her little "missy" was under a spell. If so, the
spell was tempered by an almost idolatrous love on the mother's part.

When she was getting to be a romping big girl, she had just as queer
ways; too old for a child, though the sober, owl-like look began to
soften to an earnest expression, which on occasions verged upon a
twinkle in the deep blue eyes. Distant friends were now writing letters