"The stove was to be set into the wall,"began Ruth,"and surrounded with marble and white tiling,or,if this was too expensive,it was to be hidden from view by a screen of Japanese silk.A nice oak settle,hand carved,which 'the young husband might make in his spare moments,'was to be placed in front of it,and there were to be plate racks and shelves on the walls,to hold the rare china.Charming kitchen!"Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone like stars."You're an awfully funny girl,"said Winfield,quietly,"to fly into a passion over a 'transformed kitchen'that you never saw.Why don't you save your temper for real things?"She looked at him,meaningly,and he retreated in good order."Ithink I'm a tactful person,"he continued,hurriedly,"because Iget on so well with you.Most of the time,we're as contented as two kittens in a basket.""My dear Mr.Winfield,"returned Ruth,pleasantly,"you're not only tactful,but modest.I never met a man whose temperament so nearly approached the unassuming violet.I'm afraid you'll never be appreciated in this world--you're too good for it.You must learn to put yourself forward.I expect it will be a shock to your sensitive nature,but it's got to be done.""Thank you,"he laughed."I wish we were in town now,and I'd begin to put myself forward by asking you out to dinner and afterward to the theatre.""Why don't you take me out to dinner here?"she asked.
"I wouldn't insult you by offering you the 'Widder's'cooking.Imean a real dinner,with striped ice cream at the end of it.""I'll go,"she replied,"I can't resist the blandishments of striped ice cream.""Thank you again;that gives me courage to speak of something that has lain very near my heart for a long time.""Yes?"said Ruth,conventionally.For the moment she was frightened.
"I've been thinking fondly of your chafing-dish,though I haven't been allowed to see it yet,and I suppose there's nothing in the settlernent to cook in it,is there?""Nothing much,surely."
"We might have some stuff sent out from the city,don't you think so?""Canned things?"
"Yes--anything that would keep."
Aided and abetted by Winfield,she made out a list of articles which were unknown to the simple-minded inhabitants of the village.
"I'll attend to the financial part of it,"he said,pocketing the list,"and then,my life will be in your hands."After he went away,Ruth wished she knew more about the gentle art of cooking,which,after all,is closely allied to the other one--of making enemies.She decided to dispense with Hepsey's services,when Winfield came up to dinner,and to do everything herself.
She found an old cook book of Aunt Jane's and turned over its pages with new interest.It was in manuscript form,and seemed to represent the culinary knowledge of the entire neighbourhood.
Each recipe was duly accredited to its original author,and there were many newspaper clippings,from the despised "Woman's Page"in various journals.
Ruth thought it would be an act of kindness to paste the loose clippings into Aunt Jane's book,and she could look them over as she fastened them in.The work progressed rapidly,until she found a clipping which was not a recipe.It was a perfunctory notice of the death of Charles Winfield,dated almost eighteen years ago.
She remembered the various emotions old newspapers had given her when she first came to Aunt Jane's.This was Abigail Weatherby's husband--he had survived her by a dozen years."I'm glad it's Charles Winfield instead of Carl,"thought Ruth,as she put it aside,and went on with her work.
"Pantry's come,"announced Winfield,a few days later;"I didn't open it,but I think everything is there.Joe's going to bring it up.""Then you can come to dinner Sunday,"answered Ruth,smiling.
"I'll be here,"returned Winfield promptly."What time do we dine?""I don't know exactly.It's better to wait,I think,until Hepsey goes out.She always regards me with more or less suspicion,and it makes me uncomfortable."Sunday afternoon,the faithful Joe drove up to the gate,and Hepsey emerged from her small back room,like a butterfly from a chrysalis.She was radiant in a brilliant blue silk,which was festooned at irregular intervals with white silk lace.Her hat was bending beneath its burden of violets and red roses,starred here and there with some unhappy buttercups which had survived the wreck of a previous millinery triumph.Her hands were encased in white cotton gloves,which did not fit.
