"What's this I hear about a vagabond boy in my bed, Aunt Alviry?" he demanded, when he came in.
"The poor child!" said the old woman. "Oh, my back, and oh, my bones! Come in and see him, Jabez," she urged, hobbling toward the passage.
"No. Who is he? What is he here for? That Cameron talks so fast I never can get the rights of what he's saying till afterward. Says the boy belongs up there where he wants to take Ruth to-morrow?"
"He has run away from his home at Scarboro, Uncle," said Ruth.
"Young villain! A widder's son, too!" said her uncle.
"He says his father is dead," said Ruth, hesitating.
"I venture to say!' exclaimed Jabez Potter. "And he's in my bed; is he?"
He came back to this as being a reason for objection.
"Now, now, Jabez," said Aunt Alvirah, soothingly. "He ain't hurted the bed. He was wet—the coat frozen right on him—when they brought him in. I had to git him atween blankets jest as quick as I could. And your bedroom isn't so cold as the rooms upstairs."
"Well?" grunted Mr. Potter.
