[Editor’s note: This story, registered with the Library of Congress in June 1904, circulated in a number of North American newspapers beginning in November 1904, including the Picton Gazette.]

“Lord love you, mother,” said Hiram Peters, “that chap’s all right, even if his clothes are dirty. You kin see he ain’t a tramp.”

“That’s all right, Hi,” retorted his better half, “but I don’t like the looks of him. He wouldn’t eat a decent, warm meal, but insisted on sitting on the steps and eating bread and milk.

That blue bowl he’s got belonged to Gran’ma Bassett’s father.”

“Pshaw!” declared Peters. “He don’t want your bowl, and I don’t blame him fer wantin’ to stay outside a nice day like this. I’ll bet he’s got money and is jest trampin’ fer fun.”

Meanwhile the unconscious subject of her suspicions was placidly sitting on the back porch, a pitcher of milk at one hand and a loaf of bread on the other, while in his lap reposed the famous blue bowl, which was being rapidly depleted of its contents. Could he have heard Mrs. Peters he might have reassured her, but his thoughts were not of those within the house, but of the glorious scene without.

Across a short level space the ground fell rapidly away to the shores of Lake Oswammie, while on the farther side were the falls of the Oswammie river, a sheer drop of sixty feet into the lake.

It had been his first real day in the country since he had left home fifteen years before, at the death of his parents, to seek fortune in the great city. He was a millionaire now, but his money had been gained at the expense of pleasure. He began to realize all that he had lost.

He felt as though time had gone back for a space and he was sitting on the porch of his old home waiting for Ruth Nesbitt to pass on her way to the meadows, where the Nesbitt and Rascom cows enjoyed common pasturage.

He wondered where Ruth was now. There had been a tearful farewell the night before he had left home, and he had promised to return soon and marry her. He had written regularly at first, but there had been no response, and he had stopped. Other and more important matters, as he thought, absorbed him. When he had had time to write friends and make inquiries he had been told that Ruth had gone away. Jacob Springer, the postmaster, had been sent to prison for stealing stamps, registered letters, etc. Springer had always been Rascom’s rival even of the school days. Doubtless he had intercepted the lovers’ correspondence, and now Rascom bitterly regretted that he had become so absorbed in speculation that he had not thought of going back to make a personal investigation.

Then a strange thing happened. Over the brow of the hill came Ruth Nesbitt. She was older and more mature, but even before he could distinguish her features he knew that it was Ruth. He rubbed his eyes, thinking that the dreams of other days might have evolved this ideal of the past. But on she came, advancing slowly. He rose and went to meet her. There was a low fence at the foot of the homely garden, and there she paused as he came up.

“It is very good to see you,” she said simply as he came up. “How did you ever happen to come?”

“I was walking,” he said vaguely, “and the people inside gave me some bread and milk.” He was conscious of a sense of disappointment. The greeting was so commonplace.

Her glance fell upon his soiled clothes. The roads had been muddy, and several passing wagons had splashed him until he was stained from head to foot, and his cravat was white with dust. He did not realize what a change the tramping had made in his appearance.

“How did you find that I was living here?” she asked, with a curious softness in her voice.

“I didn’t know,” he confessed frankly. “I tried long ago to find you again after I had learned about Springer”—

“What about Springer?” she asked.

“Didn’t you hear?” he demanded. “Didn’t you know that he probably intercepted your letters? He is in the penitentiary now.”

“Then you did write? I am glad of that,” she said slowly. “I thought that when you got to the city that you had forgotten your country friends.”

“Forgotten!” he shouted, “There has not been a day in the past ten years that I haven’t regretted that I accepted so calmly what I thought at first was my rejection.”

“Then you, too, lacked faith?” she suggested.

“I, tỏo,” he agreed, “for a little while. But I have always loved you. I have never married.”

“Neither have I,” she said softly, while a flush crept slowly over her cheek.

“But you will?” he demanded eagerly, “right now.”

 “This very moment?” she asked, half playfully, half pathetically.

“As soon as we can find a minister,” he declared masterfully. “Is there one near here?”

“There is one right down the road,” she answered, with a slight hesitation in her tone, but happiness in her eyes.

Rascom vaulted the garden fence, and hand in hand they went down the road. Thirty minutes later the words had been spoken which made them one at last. It had all come about so suddenly that neither seemed to realize that they were doing anything out of the ordinary.

Rascom kissed the bride and thrust a bill into the hands of the white haired old minister, who stared at the three figures in silent amazement. Ruth gasped as her gaze followed that of the minister.

“Oh, John! I ain’t dream”—

For the first time Rascom realized how deceptive his appearance was, and he stopped her with a kiss.

“My dear,” he asked, “did you think I was a tramp?”

“Well, you didn’t look very prosperous,” she reminded him, “but you were John to me, and I’d have married you had you been a beggar. I have made a little money teaching, and I knew that I had enough for two.”

“I think,” he laughed, as he shook the hand of the still astonished minister, “that I have more than enough for two.”

Then they went back to the Peters farm.

“I hope,” said Mrs. Peters tartly, from the doorway, “that you have my blue bowl. It belonged to Gran’ma Bassett’s father. I told pa you was goin’ to carry it off.”

“The bowl must be down by the garden gate,” smiled Rascom, “what I want to carry away is Ruth.”