Aunt Madge was in Prudy’s sitting-room when Ruthie entered.  Ruthie went up to her and shook hands at once.

“I suppose it is Susy’s aunt Madge,” said she.  “I am delighted to see you, for Susy says you love little girls, and know lots of games.”

There was such a quiet composure in Ruth’s manner, and she seemed to feel so perfectly at home in addressing a young lady she had never seen before, that Miss Parlin was quite astonished, as well as a little inclined to smile.

Then Ruthie went on to talk about the war.  Susy listened in mute despair, for she did not know anything about politics.  Aunt Madge looked at Susy’s face, and felt amused, for Ruthie knew nothing about politics either:  she was as ignorant as Susy.  She had only heard her mother and other ladies talking together.  Ruthie answered all the purpose of a parrot hung up in a cage, for she caught and echoed everything that was said, not having much idea what it meant.

When aunt Madge heard Ruth laboring away at long sentences, with hard words in them, she thought of little Dotty, as she had seen her, that morning, trying to tug Percy’s huge dog up stairs in her arms.

“It is too much for her,” thought aunt Madge:  “the dog got the upper-hand of Dotty, and I think the big words are more than a match for Ruth.”

But Ruth did not seem to know it, for she persevered.  She gravely asked aunt Madge if she approved of the “Mancimation of Proclapation.”  Then she said she and her mamma were very much “perplexed" when news came of the last defeat.  She would have said “surprised” only surprised was an every-day word, and not up to standard of elegant English.

Ruth was not so very silly, after all.  It was only when she tried to talk of matters too old for her that she made herself ridiculous.  She was very quiet and industrious, and had knit several pairs of socks for the soldiers.

As soon as Miss Parlin could disentangle herself from her conversation with Ruthie, she left the children to themselves.

“Let’s keep school,” said Prudy.  “I’ll be teacher, if you want me to.”

“Very well,” replied Susy, “we’ll let her; won’t we, girls? she is such a darling.”

“Well,” said Prudy, with a look of immense satisfaction, “please go, Susy, and ask grandma if I may have one of those shiny, white handkerchiefs she wears on her neck, and a cap, and play Quaker.”

Grandma was very glad that Prudy felt well enough to play Quaker, and lent her as much “costume” as she needed, as well as a pair of spectacles without eyes, which the children often borrowed for their plays, fancying that they added to the dignity of the wearer.

When Prudy was fairly equipped, she was a droll little Quakeress, surely, and grandma had to be called up from the kitchen to behold her with her own eyes.  The little soft face, almost lost in the folds of the expansive cap, was every bit as solemn as if she had been, as aunt Madge said, “a hundred years old, and very old for her age.”