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Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill, by Alice B. Emerson

The Naked Word electronic
edition of....
Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill
or
Jasper Parloe's Secret
by Alice B. Emerson, 1913
New York
Cupples & Leon Company
Publishers



CHAPTER I
THE RED FLAME IN THE NIGHT
THE sound of the drumming wheels! It had roared in the ears of Ruth Fielding
for hours as she sat on the comfortably upholstered seat in the last car of the
afternoon Limited, the train whirling her from the West to the East, through the
fertile valleys of Upper New York State.
This had been a very long journey for the girl, but Ruth knew that it would
soon come to an end. Cheslow was not many miles ahead now; she had searched it
out upon the railroad timetable, and upon the map printed on the back of the
sheet; and as the stations flew by, she had spelled their names out with her
quick eyes, until dusk had fallen and she could no longer see more than the
signal lamps and switch targets as the train whirled her on.
But she still stared through the window. This last car of the train was
fairly well filled, but she had been fortunate in having a seat all to herself;
she was glad this was so, for a person in the seat with her might have
discovered how hard it was for her to keep back the tears.
For Ruth Fielding was by no means one of the "crying kind," and she had
forbidden herself the luxury of tears on this occasion.
"We had all that out weeks ago, you know we did!" she whispered,
apostrophizing that inner self that really wanted to break the brave compact.
"When we knew we had to leave dear old Darrowtown, and Miss True Pettis, and
Patsy Hope, and--and 'all other perspiring friends,' to quote Amoskeag Lanfell's
letter that she wrote home from Conference.
"No, Ruth Fielding! Uncle Jabez Potter may be the very nicest kind of an old
dear. And to live in a mill--and one painted red, too! That ought to make up for
a good many disappointments--"
Her soliloquy was interrupted by a light tap upon her shoulder. Ruth glanced
around and up quickly. She saw standing beside her the tall old gentleman who
had been sitting two seats behind on the other side of the aisle ever since the
train left Buffalo.
He was a spare old gentleman, with a gaunt, eagle-beaked face, cleanly
shaven but for a sweeping iron-gray mustache, his iron-gray hair waved over the
collar of his black coat--a regular mane of hair which flowed out from under the
brim of his well-brushed, soft-crowned hat. His face would have been very stern
in its expression had it not been for the little twinkle in his bright, dark
eyes.