The Dark Star. Robert W. Chambers

know: I’ll be ready in time!”

      “It’s after seven, Rue!”

      “I’m so cold, mother dear!” 19

      “I closed your window. You may bathe and dress down here.”

      “B-r-r-r! I can see my own breath when I breathe!”

      “Come down and dress by the kitchen range,” repeated her mother. “I’ve warm water all ready for you.”

      The brassy light behind the trees was becoming golden; slim bluish shadows already stretched from the base of every tree across frozen fields dusted with snow.

      As usual, the lank black cat came walking into the room, its mysterious crystal-green eyes brilliant in the glowing light.

      Listening, the child heard her father moving heavily about in the adjoining room.

      Then, from below again:

      “Ruhannah!”

      “I’m going to get up, mother!”

      “Rue! Obey me!”

      “I’m up! I’m on my way!” She sprang out amid a tempest of bedclothes, hopped gingerly across the chilly carpet, seized her garments in one hand, comb and toothbrush in the other, ran into the hallway and pattered downstairs.

      The cat followed leisurely, twitching a coal-black tail.

      “Mother, could I have my breakfast first? I’m so hungry––”

      Her mother turned from the range and kissed her as she huddled close to it. The sheet of zinc underneath warmed her bare feet delightfully. She sighed with satisfaction, looked wistfully at the coffeepot simmering, sniffed at the biscuits and sizzling ham.

      “Could I have one little taste before I––” 20

      “Come, dear. There’s the basin. Bathe quickly, now.”

      Ruhannah frowned and cast a tragic glance upon the tin washtub on the kitchen floor. Presently she stole over, tested the water with her finger-tip, found it not unreasonably cold, dropped the night-dress from her frail shoulders, and stepped into the tub with a perfunctory shiver—a thin, overgrown child of fifteen, with pipestem limbs and every rib anatomically apparent.

      Her hair, which had been cropped to shoulder length, seemed to turn from chestnut to bronze fire, gleaming and crackling under the comb which she hastily passed through it before twisting it up.

      “Quickly but thoroughly,” said her mother. “Hasten, Rue.”

      Ruhannah seized soap and sponge, gasped, shut her grey eyes tightly, and fell to scrubbing with the fury of despair.

      “Don’t splash, dear––”

      “Did you warm my towel, mother?”—blindly stretching out one thin and dripping arm.

      Her mother wrapped her in a big crash towel from head to foot.

      Later, pulling on stockings and shoes by the range, she managed to achieve a buttered biscuit at the same time, and was already betraying further designs upon another one when her mother sent her to set the table in the sitting-room.

      Thither sauntered Ruhannah, partly dressed, still dressing.

      By the nickel-trimmed stove she completed her toilet, then hastily laid the breakfast cloth and arranged the china and plated tableware, and filled the water pitcher.

      Her father came in on his crutches; she hurried from 21 the table, syrup jug in one hand, cruet in the other, and lifted her face to be kissed; then she brought hot plates, coffeepot, and platters, and seated herself at the table where her father and mother were waiting in silence.

      When she was seated her father folded his large, pallid, bony hands; her mother clasped hers on the edge of the table, bowing her head; and Ruhannah imitated them. Between her fingers she could see the cat under the table, and she watched it arch its back and gently rub against her chair.

      “For what we are about to receive, make us grateful, Eternal Father. This day we should go hungry except for Thy bounty. Without presuming to importune Thee, may we ask Thee to remember all who awake hungry on this winter day. … Amen.”

      Ruhannah instantly became very busy with her breakfast. The cat beside her chair purred loudly and rose at intervals on its hind legs to twitch her dress; and Ruhannah occasionally bestowed alms and conversation upon it.

      “Rue,” said her mother, “you should try to do better with your algebra this week.”

      “Yes, I do really mean to.”

      “Have you had any more bad-conduct marks?”

      “Yes, mother.”

      Her father lifted his mild, dreamy eyes of an invalid. Her mother asked:

      “What for?”

      “For wasting my time in study hour,” said the girl truthfully.

      “Were you drawing?”

      “Yes, mother.”

      “Rue! Again! Why do you persist in drawing pictures 22 in your copy books when you have an hour’s lesson in drawing every week? Besides, you may draw pictures at home whenever you wish.”

      “I don’t exactly know why,” replied the girl slowly. “It just happens before I notice what I am doing. … Of course,” she explained, “I do recollect that I oughtn’t to be drawing in study hour. But that’s after I’ve begun, and then it seems a pity not to finish.”

      Her mother looked across the table at her husband:

      “Speak to her seriously, Wilbour.”

      The Reverend Mr. Carew looked solemnly at his long-legged and rapidly growing daughter, whose grey eyes gazed back into her father’s sallow visage.

      “Rue,” he said in his colourless voice, “try to get all you can out of your school. I haven’t sufficient means to educate you in drawing and in similar accomplishments. So get all you can out of your school. Because, some day, you will have to help yourself, and perhaps help us a little.”

      He bent his head with a detached air and sat gazing mildly at vacancy—already, perhaps, forgetting what the conversation was about.

      “Mother?”

      “What, Rue?”

      “What am I going to do to earn my living?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Do you mean I must go into the mill like everybody else?”

      “There are other things. Girls work at many things in these days.”

      “What kind of things?”

      “They may learn to keep accounts, help in shops––”

      “If father could afford it, couldn’t I learn to do 23 something more interesting? What do girls work at whose fathers can afford to let them learn how to work?”

      “They may become teachers, learn stenography and typewriting; they can, of course, become dressmakers; they can nurse––”

      “Mother!”

      “Yes?”

      “Could I choose the business of drawing pictures? I know how!”

      “Dear, I don’t believe it is practical to––”

      “Couldn’t I draw pictures for books and magazines? Everybody says I draw very nicely. You say so, too. Couldn’t I earn enough money to live on and to take care of you and father?”

      Wilbour Carew looked up from his reverie:

      “To