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Show RUTH'S LEGACY. Ruth Fulton rolled up the towel which she has just finished hemming and placed it with a number of similar rolls on the table beside her, then turned with a sigh to a heap awaiting like trea-tment. Through the open windows and door came in the rose-scented and honeysuckle-laden air. The linden trees cast quivering shadows on the broad band J of sunlight on the floor. The call to 1 her to ro out seemed almost too im- perative to be resisted. j Ruth gave her thread an impatient ' twist as she took the first stitch in another towel. It would be so beautiful down by the river, she thought; and she had planned to sketch that one bit of mingled sunlight and shadow by the willows. Later in the day the sun would be too hi-h for the effect she wanted. Her imratience increased as the sound of her mother's voice, softly singing a hymn as she moved about her kitchen tasks, reached her ears. How could her mother be so contented, so uncomplaining in their humdrum lot? There was no one who sympathized with her in her longing for something hig-her and better in life. The monotonous mono-tonous routine of their way of living was becoming unendurable. Mrs. Fulton came in after awhile. "Nearly through with the towels, Ruth?" she asked. The girl raised her head, an impatient impa-tient answer rising to her Hds; but something in her mother's face, either its rentle patience or its tired lines, touched her. She replied briefly: "Not nearly." "Well," said Mrs. Fulton, "you won't have tinv more for some time." "But there will be something else, though," said Ruth, sighing. Her mother made no reply. She seated seat-ed himself, and taking a pair of stockings stock-ings from a well-filled basket on a a table near her, began to darn. Presently Pres-ently she said: "If you wish, dear, you may put those towels away till tomorrow." tomor-row." "Oh, no. I'll finish them today," returned re-turned Ruth. There would be no use in going out them, she thought; it was too late for the view she wanted. She worked on resolutely. Mrs. Fulton seemed thoughtful over her darning, and silence reigned. This was broken bv the entrance of Mr. Fulton. "Not out sketching, Ruth?" he asked. Those towels had to be hemmed," explained his wife. "Oh! I see! Well, little girl, there will be other mornings." "I hoie so," sighed Ruth. .Her father seated himself by the onen doorway. "I saw Mr. Lang in the village this morning." he said. "It is decided at last that Lena is to go to the city for a year at the Conservatory Conserva-tory of Music." "Oh!" exclaimed Ruth, breathlessly. "Why, how is that?" asked Mrs. Fulton Ful-ton in a surprised voice. "Mrs. Lang told me not long ago that they had given ud all plans of that kind for Lena." "They have sold that western land, and the price they have received is so much greater than they expected inii they are able to give Lena a few hundreds hun-dreds for her music." "I am glad." said Mrs. Fulton, heart-"When heart-"When is she going, father?" asked Ruth. "Next week. I believe. "How unexpectedly things come sometimes," said Mrs. Fulton. "Yes," assented her husband, as he opened' his newly arrived Farm Journal. Jour-nal. Ruth's needle flew quickly in and out. Her thoughts were in a turmoil. All the discontent which she had been striving for the last month to stifle was stirred ur. Everyone was more fortunate than she. Edith Brown had gone to college. Mary Wells was going go-ing to the city twice a week for singing sing-ing lessons, and now here was this news about Lena Lang. And she must go on with the commonplace routine of housework. How she hated it all! And she had talent for better things, too- she was sure of it. That artist two years ago had said that she had unusual talentfor painting as she never to have a chance to develop it? She was sure that she could earn the money for it herself if her parents would only consent. Her mother broke in upon her thoughts with a gentle, "It is time for us to go and see about dinner, d6Ruth rose to follow her to the kitchen kitch-en with a determination of speaking to her father of a plan, which had been forming in her mind, at the first, opportunity.- ' She found this opportunity that evening after tea as they were sitting on the veranda in the soft June twilight. twi-light. The conversation had again turned upon Lena Lang and her approaching ap-proaching departure for the conservatory. conserva-tory. "I am sure that I could earn enough for a course at the Art academy if you would let me," said Ruth, eagerly.' "Eearn it?" repeated her father. "How do you mean, child?" Ruth unfolded her plan, which was to find a position in a dry goods or millinery establishment in the cii.y, and remain in it until she could save enough to pay for lessons at the Art academy. Her parents listened attentively until un-til she had finished, then her mother said, decidedly: "I cannot let you do that, Ruth." "No," said Mr. Fulton, "it is not to be thought of." "But " began Ruth. "My dear," interrupted her mother, "you are too young and inexperienced to go to the city alone in that way." "1 am nearly 17, mother," urged Ruth. "You must give up all such plans, Ruth," said her father. "If I had the money it could be managed. I could then place you with some responsible family where you would be safe while you were going on with your studies. What you could earn would only pay your board in some cheap place where the associations would not be desirable. We'll not discuss it any further." Mr. Fulton's tone was one which Ruth knew well. His decision could not be altered. "Perhaps we shall be able to send you next year," said her mother, hope-j hope-j fully. 1 Ruth did not answer. "I might as 1 well give up all thoughts of making anything of myself," she thought, bitterly. bit-terly. "Pre got to go on from day to day in this humdrmu way." "My child, it is a disappointment to us also, that we cannot give you the advantages that you would like to have," said her father sadly.- Ruth felt suddenly ashamed. A remembrance re-membrance came to her of the many trials and disappointments which her fqtv,pV ha(j had in life, some of them within her own knowledge, and others of which her mother had told her. And he was always so patient! One day, in the latter part of summer, sum-mer, Mr. Fulton received a telegram from Boston calling him to the deathbed death-bed of an aunt. When he returned it was with news that took away Ruth's breath. Her aunt, after whom Ruth had been named, had left the latter $1,000. A thousand dollars! Why, it was too good to be true. It was just like the wonderful things that she had read in books. She could with difficulty diffi-culty realize it. "Is it mine to do as I wish with?'5 she asked her father. "Yes." said Mr, Fulton, "you may use it as you please. There are no restrictions re-strictions at all. It is in the bank for you." "Oh. how splendid; Now," turning eagerly to her mother, "you will let me go and study at the Art Academy. That will surely be enough money." Mrs. Fulton smiled. "I knew what you would do with it," 'she said. "Yes, you may go now." "Yes." 'added Mr. Fulton, "I was going to suggest that you use the money for that." "When?" asked Ruth, eagerly. "Just as soon as I can find a suit- ' able boarding place for you," returned her father. "I feel as though it were all a draem," said Ruth, after her going had been discussed at length. "A very substantial dream," smiled her mother. And when her father had written to friends in the city in regard to a suitable suit-able boarding place for her, and her mother was preparing her clothes, Ruth felt that it w-as inaeeo. a reaiuy. Her great desire was to be fulfilled at last. One morning she went with some work to the house of a Mrs. Smith near the village, who sometimes did sewing for her mother. She found her very sick in. bed, and old Sally West, a neighbor, in attendance. The latter accompanied Ruth to the gate when she left to go home. "I am so sorry for Mrs. Smith. She does look very sick," said Ruth. "It's hard work that has done it." said Sally, sharply. "And that son of hers away off. Farmin' wasn't good enough for him. Here's his poor old mother a-dependin' on strangers." "Doesn't he do anything for her?" asked Ruth. She remembered Thomas Smith as an ambitious young man who had gone to eNw York two years be fore to "make something of himself." "Not a thing. He's as much as he can do to take care of himself. He'd a sight better have stayed here and worked as his father did before him. Seems like children . don't think of their parents these days only of their own notions. If his mother dies now, I wonder how he will feel?" t sunset that evening Ruth strolled down to the stile that gave communi-ca'tion communi-ca'tion between the garden and a piece of meadow land. It was a favorite spot of hers, and she had spent many hours there constructing "Castles in Spain." Never, she thought, had the view been lovelier than this evening the lon5 line of distant hills bathed in golden light, theJ river winding among them like a thread of silver, the deep hush of the evening hour broken only by the far-off tinkling of a bell. But other things than the beauty of the landscape filled her thoughts as she sat thefe. She found it impossible to throw off a vague feeling of uneasiness uneasi-ness which had . takeji possession of her. Sally West's words that morning had awakened i't. Was it right for her to leave home as she was about to do? Certainly her parents were willing to let her go, but they were always ready to sacrifice themselves for her. Her father's affairs were not in a flourishing flourish-ing condition. How much $1,000 would do for him! And. after all, she might fail. Others with even greater talent ha4 done so. Her mother was hot strong. What if she should be sick or die? Ruth caught her breath sharply at the thought. Just then her father crossed the yard from the barn to the house. The distance dis-tance was not too great for Ruth to see how tired he looked. She noticed also how stooped his form was getting. get-ting. He worked so hard. How lonesome lone-some it would be for them when she was gone! Ruth e?.t on the stile until the twilight twi-light came down around her, then she walked slowly to the house. She found her mother sitting on the veranda alone. "Where is father?" asked Ruth. "He has gone to bed. He was very tired. If you will light the lamp, dear, I'll come in and cut out that waist." "You are not to sew any more, mother I am not going," said Ruth, softly, as she knelt down by her mother's moth-er's side and twined her arms about her neck. "Not going? Why, Ruth! What "How horribly selfish you must have thought me, mother!" "But. my dear " "Wait, mother, let me tell you. I am going to Etay at home with you and father always. I don't want to be an artist, even if I have talent enough, which I think 1.3 doubtful. We are going to take that money and well, we'll do lots of th'-ngs with it. The first thing is that father is going to have a strong man here all the time to help him, and I am going to send you off on a visit to Aunt Margaret. You know that she has been wanting you for so long, and, oh! there are lots of things I want to do." "But, my dear," expostulated Mrs. Fulton, "have you thought well of this change of decision? And, dear, we cannot spend your money. I " "You are not going to spend it," interrupted Ruth. "I am, and for the things I want most. Now you must not say another word about it. Aren't you glad to keep me with you?" And the tender folds of her mother's arms about her answered her question. Emily S. Windsor, in the Advance. |