A moment later Ruth appeared, holding a brightly trimmed lamp
in her hand; she laid it on a little centre-table, drew down the blinds,
pulled the red curtains across the windows, poked up the fire, and then
proceeded to lay the cloth for supper. Her pile of books, which she had
brought in her satchel, lay on a chair.
"I can have a look at your books while I am waiting, can't I, little
woman?" said the old man.
Ruth brought him over the pack of books somewhat unwillingly. He gave a
sigh of contentment, drew the lamp a little nearer, and was lost for the
time being.
"Now, child," said old Mrs. Craven, "you heat that plate by the fire.
Have you got the pepper and salt handy? Sausages ain't worth touching
unless you eat them piping hot. Your grandfather wants his beer. Dear,
dear! What a worry that is! I never knew that the cask was empty. What
is to be done?"
"I can go round to the shop and bring in a quart," said Ruth.
"But you--a member of the Shirley School! No, you mustn't. I'll do it."
"Nonsense, granny! I'll leave school to-morrow if you don't let me work
for you just the same as ever."
Mrs. Craven sank into her chair.
"You are a good child," she said. "All day I have been so fretting that
we were taking you out of your station; and that is a sad mistake--sad
and terrible. But you are a good child. Yes, go for it, dear; it won't
do you any harm."
Ruth wrapped an old shawl round her head, picked up a jug, and went off
to the nearest public-house.
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