Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill

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

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Title: Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill
Author: Alice B. Emerson
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Ruth Fielding of the Red Mill
or
Jasper Parloe's Secret
by Alice B. Emerson, 1913
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.
"Why don't you do it?" he asked Ruth, softly.
"Why don't I do what, sir?" she responded, not without a little gulp, for
that lump would rise in her throat.

"Why don't you cry?" questioned the strange old gentleman, still
speaking softly and with that little twinkle in his eye.
"Because I am determined not to cry, sir," and now Ruth could call up a
little smile, though perhaps the corners of her mouth trembled a bit.
The gentleman sat down beside her, although she had not invited him
to do so. She was not at all afraid of him and, after all,