LTHOUGH Aunt Ruth had been

ALT

dead over forty-five years, and was only four when she succumbed to whooping-cough, pneumonia, scarlet fever, or mumps, she had them all, but I can never remember which one finished her,her personality influenced our entire early life. This was because she had been perpetuated by a very sizable portrait in oils. In this painting Aunt Ruth perched on one end of a shiny haircloth sofa, underneath a window through which marooncolored morning-glories peeped. She wore a pale-drab silk, traced with a tiny plaid pattern of darker drab,-pieces of it still survive in the log-cabin quilts my grandmother made, she clasped a stiff magenta rose in one small hand, and dangled a mustard-colored specimen of the sunbonnet family in the other. Her black-slippered feet rested lightly upon a “cricket," which position was distinctly favorable to the flaunting of some very long, very white pantalets. Obviously, pantalets had just come into fashion at that time; otherwise the artist would never have emphasized them so.

My name is Joe, and I had two sisters younger than I; one, Ann, who in her extreme youth was rather fat and stupid, and the other, Emma, who was, and always has been, a good sport. We three possessed still another sister, Ruth, named of course for the aunt in the painting; but as she was seven years older than I, she did n't count at all in my earliest recollections of the portrait.

It was when we were all very little indeed, before our reasoning faculties were more than rudimentary, that we three youngsters accepted those pantalets of Aunt Ruth's as one of the charming assets of this odd and entertaining world into which we had been born. In fact, we not only accepted Aunt Ruth, but we made a great companion of her on account of her sociable eyes. Those eyes were painted in such a way that they followed us all

about. As long as we could see Aunt Ruth, she was always gazing interestedly at us. Even if we jumped out at her suddenly, we never managed to surprise her; she never could be caught napping. Aunt Ruth's most fascinating trait, however, consisted in her ability to stare at all three of us at once when we stood far apart, in different corners of the large front hall where she hung. This uncanny gift of being able to watch many persons simultaneously, and without looking the least bit cross-eyed, endeared her to us unspeakably. And although I am years older now, and know better, still, in those days I often thought that I could discern a faint. grin of approving delight from Aunt Ruth when I surreptitiously slid down the balustrade. Once, I swear, she laughed. That was on the disgraceful day when, not having heard the front door-bell I shot down the railing, and all but upset our richest relative, Aunt Ida Morse, who was in the act of paying her annual call. I not only saw Aunt Ruth laugh, but I heard a smothered giggle. And Emma always declared that she was not even in the house at the time, so it could n't have been she.

Our first disillusion about Aunt Ruth occurred when the Moseley children came with their mother to spend the day with us. Up to that time, as I have said, we had supposed that every one kept an Aunt Ruth with pantalets in the front hall. But, alas! when the mothers were both safely out in the garden, and we hastily took that Heaven-sent opportunity to invite the Moseleys to taste the delights of banister-coasting, they caught sight of Aunt Ruth. After that they could only stand and gaze at her in scarlet silence. At length they refused to remain in the same hall with our aunt, and as we took them up-stairs, they sobbed aloud at her indecency. Even when we were all safely ensconced in the attic, the Moseleys kept on being very haughty, and looked at us

as if we had purposely committed the most heinous of sins. Although we knew that we were in no way responsible for our aunt, nevertheless we felt unutterably disgraced. When the interminable day came to an end, and the Moseleys sought their own pure home, we revived. They were such goody-goody prigs! They had refused to join in several of our choicest games, such as throwing water at the postman. We told them that we liked the postman, and that we did n't want to get him wet, but that it was fun to see how near you could come without hitting him. Their indifference indicated that they were spoil-sports whose opinion was worthless.

It was when we gave our first real party, however, that the consensus of opinion among the fifty children present drove home the fact that Aunt Ruth's portrait was a family skeleton. The children were all dreadfully shocked at it, and, in consequence, snubbed us for weeks. They treated us worse than they did Maud Pearson, whose father had embezzled, and been sent to prison. Maud, with her papa in jail, was romantically interesting; we were merely low. It took us months to live down that party.

Much as we suffered from our social ostracism, we never dared ask the family to shut away the skeleton in the closet. It would have done no good. We had learned from experience that, outside our playroom, inanimate objects were to stay where we found them when we were born. Our only possible revenge, therefore, was to make the most horrible faces at our aunt every time we were forced by circumstances to pass through the front hall. After the party, we had almost exclusively used the back stairs.

For hundreds and hundreds of years, from the ages of six to twelve, we were steadily ashamed of our aunt. We could never be coerced into having another party. No, indeed, not with that disgrace in the hall! Emma, who, as I have mentioned, is a sport, one day took a bottle of liquid shoe-blacking and effaced the pantalets. For one whole day we knew perfect happiness; then the pantalets were carefully restored by a local art dealer, and his work was paid for out of Emma's bank. Besides that, Emma had to go without dessert for a month.

We lived on in shame, year in, year out, until one Sunday when our richest relative's son, Cousin Alonzo Morse, came to dine with us. Cousin Alonzo was a freshman at Yale, and was, as we thought, of a ripe old age. It was after dinner, when our dear, tottery little grandmother led him up in front of that portrait of Aunt Ruth, that we discovered that the same object can strike different people very, very differently. Our grandmother, with some big, clear tears running down her flushed cheeks, and with fond eyes on the awful aunt, said:

"This, Alonzo, is the picture of your dear, dead little aunty."

We, cowering in the background, expected to see Cousin Alonzo put on his hat and coat, and march dignifiedly out of our house forever. Instead of that, he sank weakly upon a sofa that stood opposite the portrait and burst into a loud fit of laughter. Terrified, we turned expectantly to grandmother. How on earth would she ever punish a big, old man like Alonzo?

"You ought to have respect enough for the dead not to laugh," said grandmother, whose feelings were awfully hurt.

"I just can't help it," roared Alonzo, rolling about the sofa in glee. "Look at those pantalets!"

Grandmother looked.

"They were very pretty," she said, “and I knitted and sewed on the edging myself."

And so, after all, it was she, not Alonzo, who left the hall in offended wrath. He pursued her with heartfelt apologies, but it was only when he coaxed her out in his new touring-car, and promised to drive her round the park at ten miles an hour, and to reduce the speed to six going downhill, and kept his word, that grandmother forgave him.

Our very old sister Ruth happened to be away visiting when Cousin Alonzo came and laughed at the portrait. When Ruth returned, she had somewhere absorbed the ancestor craze, which enthusiasm included Aunt Ruth. This was a decided jolt. Since the visit of the admirable Alonzo, we had decided simply to laugh at our aunt, and we had found on experiment that this scheme worked well on friends we took through the front hall. When we, laughing, pointed out the por

trait, they invariably laughed, too. The moment Ruth's ancestor craze began to rage, we had to change our point of view again. First, Ruth got down all the old daguerreotypes from the attic, and hung them on the drawing-room walls, like so many square, black blots. Then she began to think that Aunt Ruth's position in the hall was not honorable enough. Until the ancestor craze, Ruth had never before, at least as far as we had observed, noticed Aunt Ruth. But now Aunt Ruth was "it." Aunt Ruth must be promoted from the hall to the post of honor over the drawing-room mantel. Aunt Ruth was a work of art; she and the other portraits already in the drawing-room were proofs of the blueness of our blood. Aunt Ruth, pantalets and all, was something to make you put your hands in your pockets and swagger and brag about!

Well, we had first unthinkingly adored Aunt Ruth, we had then been ashamed of her, we had been impertinent to her, and we had despised her. Finally, hoping that we had arrived at a stationary sentiment, we had laughed at her with Alonzo. Now, it seemed, we must eschew laughing, and summon thrills of pride on behalf of our difficult aunt. Ruth had so decreed. Consequently, and obediently, we straightway strove to consider Aunt Ruth our greatest treasure. If Ruth said she was, she must be. Therefore, when Aunt Ruth achieved the drawing-room, we humbly offered to help with the stepladder. Without remonstrance we rushed forth and bought new picture-hooks and wire, and after Aunt Ruth was hung, we even returned the step-ladder to the cellar without being told.

From henceforth formal callers, people whom Ruth declared it was wise to "cultivate," peered at Aunt Ruth through lorgnettes, and said unblushingly:

"How quaint! And so charminglydifferent."

Had the pantalets ceased to exist? Apparently. Every one on whom Ruth tried the modest speech, "And this is the dear little aunt for whom I was named," infallibly and promptly replied, "How bizarre!" or other mysterious words to the same effect.

I suppose that Ruth's ancestor craze had no direct connection with father's failure in business. Soon after Aunt Ruth

had been promoted, however, there came our first knowledge of a "panic" and its attendant excitements. Suddenly, from carrying our heads higher than usual, we became less than the scum of the earth. That important thing, money, was no more, at least in our family. First, the maids were all dismissed, we and they weeping; second, there were no longer any presents on birthdays, -mine came about a week after the panic; third, we were withdrawn from the small private school we felt we owned, and were thrust miserably into the crowded democracy of Public School No. 37; fourth, and next to the worst, Christmas passed unnoticed. But worst of all, literally killed by the sight of our privations, our dear little grandmother died on New-Year's day. It was the first break in the family, and we wept the harder because we could n't afford to wear black for her. And she had always loved mourning.

The first definitely pleasant occurrence after the panic was when Ed Baldwin, a neighbor, who seemed like our own older brother, confessed that ever since he had ridden to kindergarten in the same opera bus with our sister Ruth he had been in love with her. Luckily, neither Ed nor his family had been hit by the panic; they had somehow grown richer than ever. And on account of all his money, Ruth refused Ed once or twice a week all winter simply because she thought he was proposing from pity. proposing from pity. It did look that way, I thought myself; and yet, as long as Ed was willing, I did n't see why Ruth was n't all the more eager to take him on account of his money and the things he could buy her. Ruth has always been hard to understand. Finally, however, with everybody picking at her, she got so tired of saying "No" that she gave in. Right on top of the rejoicing everybody began to worry about a word that I had never heard of the word "trousseau."

Not having a very clearly defined notion of a trousseau, with its conventions and uses, but being a good deal worked up on the subject, I went privately to Ed, and asked him, as man to man, to buy Ruth one. Ed laughed, and said she really did n't need any, but he told Ruth. I was fifteen then, but it was several years before I understood why it was proper for Ed to give Ruth a diamond ring with

two "carrots;"-those invisible carrots were another source of mystification,—a necklace, flowers all the time, and not a

trousseau.

The Sunday afternoon after Ruth's engagement was announced, and Ed was away on business, Cousin Alonzo's mother, Aunt Ida Morse, who was still our richest relative, came to call. Lately, she had n't been getting round annually, as she did when we were very young, for she was growing lazier with the prosperous years. Footmen and maids waited upon her; never did she lift a finger for herself except to take a hand at bridge. In fact, she was getting to be such a thorough loafer that I expected to be told any day that Aunt Ida had hired a woman to attend her bridge parties and bring home. the first prize. It always made Aunt Ida ill if she did n't get the first prize. So when she exerted herself to appear at our house, we knew that she was deeply exercised over something.

"I suppose Ruth's marriage to young Baldwin will be the signal for dividing up the heirlooms," began Aunt Ida, coming to the point almost before she got through the front door. "You, Fred," to my father,"had sense enough to hang on to all the old portraits and mahogany through the Black-Walnut Age and the Antique-Oak Period." She had now reached the drawing-room and taken the best chair. "Everything I have is new, just imitations of old Colonial; for I won't go about and buy other people's old stuff at auctions. Of course if I chose to make trouble about the furniture you have here, and insist that things should be divided, I should be quite within my rights. But I have at length decided not to make trouble for any one." This was good news. "But"-she paused and stared at us one after another, from father down to Ann-"I have come to the conclusion that I am entitled to something, and I have chosen that portrait of my only sister, Ruth. That 's all I ask you to give me. As your Ruth was named for my sister, Fred, I suppose she is the one that will make the fuss."

Aunt Ida fixed my engaged sister with an aggressive stare. We looked at Ruth apprehensively. Since her engagement she had not been at all like herself. Either she was too loving, and wanting to hug

"I think I have a much better right to Aunt Ruth's portrait than you have, Aunt Ida," she declared, with vehemence. "Since we 've lost our money, I have almost nothing to take to my new home. And grandmother said only the week before she died that the portrait was to be mine. And father told me this very morning to take it any time I wanted it, and"-I began to dread a display of waterworks- "and Ed loves the portrait just as hard as I do, because I was named for it, and-"

"Wait a minute, child," interrupted Aunt Ida, pretty patiently, I will say, for her. "I realize that I am asking for a great deal, and perhaps I have gone at the matter unwisely. Perhaps I should have said in the beginning, Ruth, that although I realize the portrait is something that money cannot buy, I am willing to pay you a thousand dollars for it."

Silence deep, long, and taut answered our richest relative. Knowing how sentimental Ruth was, and fearing that she would n't have the sense to take the money, I squeezed in behind Aunt Ida's chair, and winked at my sister as I spelled out on my fingers in the deaf-and-dumb alphabet:

"T-r-o-u-s-s-e-a-u."

I was thankful that I had mastered the word's strange spelling preparatory to my interview on the subject with Ed. Ruth, however, seemed not to notice my gesticulations even when Emma gave her a punch. After an anxious pause she said more pleasantly than she had spoken before:

"Of course, Aunt Ida, you can understand that this is something the family ought to discuss-alone."

"Well, retire, and discuss it, only don't be too long; for it looks like rain, and I don't want my brand-new limousine to get muddy."

Solemnly, in single file, mother, father, Ruth, Emma, Ann, and I marched out of the drawing-room, through the library and dining-room, into the kitchen. Father softly shut the door. Then we all stood and stared at one another. Being the oldest, father spoke first.

"A thousand dollars would help a lot

"If you accepted Aunt Ida's offer, you could have a trousseau," admitted mother, reluctantly.

"Shall I go tell her 'Yes'?" I urged.

I had always hated discussions which follow a question that is virtually settled. "No, Joe. You keep quiet. Let a decent interval elapse," commanded Ruth. Then her face turned red, and she burst out: "I know now that I 've been a perfect old hypocrite about that portrait. In my heart I 've detested it always, from the mustard sunbonnet and the hectic red rose to the—”

"Pantalets!" shrieked Emma, Ann, and I in chorus.

"'Sh!" cautioned Ruth. "Aunt Ida 'll hear you." Then she turned respectfully to father. "You are n't hurt, Father dear?"

Ruth seemed to worship father more than ever now that she was leaving home. "Hurt? My dearest daughter, I say with all my heart, 'Amen.' How I loathe that ugly portrait! I never saw my sister; she died before I was born. I allowed her picture to hang in the hall for your grandmother's sake. I shuddered when you brought it into the drawingroom, Ruth, but I did n't want to hurt those feelings of yours. Why, it is not only those pantalets, but the whole thing is bad art; it 's frightful. I asked a man who knows."

Solemnly, in single file, mother, father, Ruth, Emma, Ann, and I marched out of the kitchen, through the dining-room and library, into the drawing-room. Again it was father who spoke first.

"Ida," he said briefly and, as I thought, with mistaken honesty, "I have never liked that picture myself, so it is no personal sacrifice to give it up, if you want to buy it. In fact, we have all decided that you shall have it; that is, if you still want it."

It seemed to me that he was just inviting Aunt Ida to back out of her bar

"While you were outside, Fred, I was looking at the portrait very carefully, and I have decided-" Oh, how my heart thumped! I thought sure enough that she had changed her mind- "I have decided, as long as the picture is so very large, that I ought to give Ruth fifteen hundred for it."

My heart dropped back to normal.

"The best portrait-painters," continued. Aunt Ida, "charge for pictures according to size. So, Ruth, if it 's all settled, my secretary will send you a check for fifteen hundred to-morrow. And, if there's no objection, Fred, I'll take the picture with me."

Eager, nimble feet rushed to the cellar for the step-ladder. Aunt Ida's chauffeur and footman took down Aunt Ruth, and when they were carrying her out, I had to put both hands over my mouth to restrain an exultant yell. No more adaptations or excuses or mock transports over Aunt Ruth! Aunt Ruth! And, thank Heaven! no more pantalets! Best of all, Ruth could have that trousseau.

While Aunt Ida was kissing father and mother good-by, I saw an irrepressible smile on the faces of her footman and chauffeur. I recognized it as the typical "Aunt Ruth" grin. No one, no matter what class in society, or what age or sex, has ever been able to look on Aunt Ruth unmoved.

When Ed Baldwin came back from his business trip, and was told that his Aunt Ruth-in-law was forever lost to him, he said something that voiced all our feelings about Aunt Ruth's departure. Looking seriously at our sister Ruth, he said simply and fervently:

"Hurray!"

And Ruth was not at all offended.

It is foolish, I know, and I have confessed to no one, but there do come times when I miss Aunt Ruth. She was so sympathetic about sliding down the banisters.