It was late in the morning when she woke from
her long-deferred slumbers; and when she went downstairs, she
found Mr. and Miss Benson awaiting her in the parlour. That
homely, pretty, old-fashioned little room! How bright and still
and clean it looked! The window (all the windows at the hack of
the house were casements) was open, to let in the sweet morning
air, and streaming eastern sunshine. The long jessamine sprays,
with their white-scented stars, forced themselves almost into the
room. The little square garden beyond, with grey stone walls all
round, was rich and mellow in its autumnal colouring, running
from deep crimson hollyhocks up to amber and gold nasturtiums,
and all toned down by the clear and delicate air. It was so
still, that the gossamer-webs, laden with dew, did not tremble or
quiver in the least; but the sun was drawing to himself the sweet
incense of many flowers, and the parlour was scented with the
odours of mignonette and stocks. Miss Benson was arranging a
bunch of China and damask roses in an old-fashioned jar; they
lay, all dewy and fresh, on the white breakfast-cloth when Ruth
entered. Mr. Benson was reading in some large folio. With gentle
morning speech they greeted her; but the quiet repose of the
scene was instantly broken by Sally popping in from the kitchen,
and glancing at Ruth with sharp reproach. She said--
"I reckon I may bring in breakfast, now?" with a strong emphasis
on the last word.
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