I suppose if I had not loved Ruth Carson so much my resentment against her would not have been so bitter. She was my first friend. She had no sister, neither had I; and we used to think that no sisters could be nearer to each other than we were. She had black eyes,—great, earnest, beautiful eyes, with pride and tenderness both in them; sometimes one and sometimes the other in the ascendant. I was yellow-haired and blue-eyed, but we always wanted our gowns and hats alike, and coaxed our mothers into indulging us. I don’t know whether Ruth suffered more in appearance when the clear dark of her face was set in my pale blues, or I, when her brilliant reds and orange turned me into a peony or a sunflower; but we thought little about such effects in those days. If Ruth got her new article of attire first, I must have one like it, whether or no; and if I was first favored, she followed my example.

It was thus in every thing. We studied from the same text-books, keeping a nearly even pace Ruth was quicker than I at figures, so she helped me there; and my eyes were better than her near-sighted ones at finding towns, mountains, and fivers on the atlas, so we always did our “map questions” together. Of course our play hours were always passed in company, and one face was almost as familiar as the other in each of our houses. “The twins,” people used to call us, for fun; and if ever two girls were all and all to each other, we were.

What did we quarrel about? It is a curious thing that I have forgotten how it began. It was some little difference of opinion, such as seldom occurred between us; and then, “what so wild as words are?” We said one thing after another, until, finally, Ruth’s black eyes flashed, and she cried out passionately,—

“I just about hate you, Sue Morrison!”

Then my temper flamed. It was a different kind of temper from Ruth’s,—slower to take fire, but much more sullen and resolute. I loved her as I did my own life, but I hated her also, just then,—if you can understand that contradiction. I looked at her, and I remember I thought, even then, how handsome she was, with the red glow on her cheeks, and her eyes so strangely bright. I could have kissed her for love, or cursed her for hate; but the hate triumphed. Slowly I said,—

“Very well, Ruth Carson. I shall not trouble you any more. I shall never speak to you again, until I see you lie a-dying.”

I don’t know what made me put that last sentence in. I suppose I thought, even then, that I could not have her go out of the world, for good and all, without one tender word from me. When I spoke, Ruth turned pale, and the light died in her eyes. I presume she did not think I really meant what I said; but, at any rate, it startled her. She did not answer. She just looked at me a moment. Then she turned away, and, for the first time in years, she and I walked home, so far as our roads lay the same way, on opposite sides of the street.

“Where is Ruth?” my mother asked, when I went in.

“Gone home, I believe,” was my only answer.

It seemed to me that I could not tell even my mother of this estrangement, which had changed in a day the whole current of my life. Of course, as time went on, she saw that all was different between Ruth and me; but, finding that I did not voluntarily tell her any thing, she ceased even to mention Ruth in my presence.

You cannot think how strange and solitary my new life seemed to me. For the first time since I could remember I felt all alone. I don’t think Ruth thought this unnatural state of things could last. The first day after our quarrel she spoke to me, at school, half timidly. I looked at her, and did not answer. She sighed, and turned away; and again, when school was over, each of us went home alone on our separate path.

Sometimes I would find a bunch of roses on my desk, for it was June when our quarrel took place, and all the roses were in bloom. Then, later, I would lift up the desk cover and come upon an early apple or a peach; later still, a handful of chestnuts. I always let the roses wither without touching them; and the fruit I gave away, as if unconscious where it came from. Ruth would watch me and sigh; but after that first morning she never spoke to me. I think my rebuff then hurt her too much for her to be willing to risk receiving such another. What a strange, new, sad thing it was to get our lessons, as we did now, all alone! How the hateful figures tormented me, without Ruth’s quick brain to help me unravel them! How puzzled she looked, as I saw her holding the map close to her near-sighted eyes, trying to find the rivers and lakes and mountains all by herself!

It was a curious thing that after the first two or three days my anger had passed away entirely. I held no longer the least bitterness in my heart toward Ruth; and yet I felt that I must keep my word. I looked upon my rash utterance as a vow, for which I had a sort of superstitious reverence. Then, too, there was a queer, evil kind of pride about me,—something that wouldn’t let me speak to her when I had said I wouldn’t,—wouldn’t let me show her that I was sorry. The teacher spoke to me about the trouble between me and Ruth, but he might as well have spoken to a blank wall,—I did not even answer him. Whether he said any thing to Ruth I do not know.

In the late fall there was a vacation, which held over Thanksgiving. I had an idea that my mother watched me curiously to see how I would pass those weeks without Ruth. But I was resolute to show no pain or loneliness. I made occupations for myself. I read; I worked worsted; I crocheted; I copied out poems in my common-place book; I was busy from morning till night. One thing I did not do,—I did not take another friend in Ruth’s stead. Several of the girls had shown themselves willing to fill the vacant place, but they soon found that “No admittance here” was written over the door. I think they tried the same experiment with Ruth, with the same result. At any rate, each of us went on our solitary way, quite alone. Ruth had her own pride, too, as well as I; and, after a little while, she would no more have spoken to me than I to her; but she could not help those great, dark eyes of hers resting on me sometimes with a wistful, inquiring look, that almost brought the tears to mine.

School commenced again the first of December. Ruth came, the first day, in her new winter dress. It was a deep, rich red; and somehow she made me think of the spicy little red roses of Burgundy, that used to grow in my grandmother’s old-fashioned garden. My own new gown was blue. For the first time in years, Ruth and I were dressed differently. We were no longer “the twins.” I thought Ruth looked a little sad. She was very grave. I never heard her laugh in these days. When it rained or snowed, and we stayed at school through the noonings, instead of going home for our dinner, neither of us would join in the games that made the noontime merry. I suppose each was afraid of too directly encountering the other.

But when the good skating came, both of us used to be on the pond. The whole school, teacher and all, would turn out on half holidays. Both Ruth and I were among the best skaters in school My father had taught us, two or three winters before, and we had had great pride in our skill. We had always skated in company before; but now, as in every thing else we did, we kept at a distance from each other.

The pond used to be a pretty sight, on those crisp, keen winter afternoons, all alive with boys and girls. A steep hill rose on one side of it, crowned by a pine wood, green all the winter through. Great fields of snow stretched far and away on the other side, and in the midst was the sheet of ice, smooth as glass. Here was a scarlet hood, and there a boy’s gay Scotch cap. Here some adventurer was cutting fantastic capers; there a girl was struggling with her first skates, and falling down at almost every step. I loved the pastime,—the keen, clear air, the swift motion, the excitement. I loved to watch Ruth, too, for by this time not only was all the bitterness gone from my heart, but the old love was welling up, sweet and strong, though nothing would have made me acknowledge it to myself. Wherever she moved, my far-sighted eyes followed her; and, indeed, she was a pretty sight, the prettiest there, in her bright scarlet skating dress, and with her cheeks scarcely less scarlet, and her great eyes bright as stars.

There came a day, at last, when we promised ourselves an afternoon of glorious skating. The ice was in excellent condition, the sky was cloudless, the weather cold, indeed, but not piercing, and the air exhilarating as wine. I ate my dinner hurriedly—there was no time to lose out of such an afternoon. I rose from the table before the rest, put on my warm jacket and my skating-cap, and was just leaving the house when my father called after me.

“Be very careful of the west side of the pond, Sue. They have been cutting a good deal of ice there.”

The whole school was out; only when I first got there I did not see Ruth. The teacher repeated to us what my father had said, but I remembered afterward that it was not till he had done speaking that Ruth came in sight, looking, in her bright scarlet, like some tropical bird astray under our pale northern skies. As usual she and I began skating at some distance from each other, but gradually I drew nearer and nearer to her. I had no reason for this. I did not mean to speak to her, and the pride that held me from her was as untamed as ever. But yet something for which I could not account drew me towards her.

Did she see me, and wish to avoid me? I did not know; but suddenly she began to skate swiftly away from me, and toward the dangerous west side of the pond. I think I must have called, “Come back! come back!” but if I did, she did not heed or hear. She was skating on, oh, so fast! I looked around in despair—I was nearer to her than any one else was. I shouted, with all my might, to Mr. Hunt, the teacher. I thought I saw him turn at the sound of my voice, but I did not wait to be sure. I just skated after Ruth.

I never can tell you about that moment. All the love with which I had loved her swept back over my heart like a great flood. Pride and bitterness, what did they mean? I only knew that I had loved Ruth Carson as I should never, never love any other friend; and that if she died I wanted to die too, and be friends with her again in the next world, if I could not here. I think I called to her, but the call was wasted upon the wind which always bore my voice the other way. So Ruth skated on and on, and I skated after her. Whether any one was coming behind me I did not know. I never even looked over my shoulder. It seemed to me that some mad wind of destiny was sweeping us both ahead.

Suddenly there came a plash, the scarlet cap appeared a moment above the ice, and then that went under, and there was no Ruth in sight, anywhere. You cannot think how calm I was. I wonder at it now, looking back over so many years, to that bright, sad, far-off winter day. I succeeded in checking my own headlong speed, and, drawing near cautiously to the spot where Ruth had gone down, I threw myself along the ice. It was thick and strong, and had been cut into squares, so it bore me up. I looked over the edge. Ruth was rising toward me. I reached down and clutched her, I hardly know by what. At that moment I felt my ankles grasped firmly by two strong hands, and then I knew that I could save Ruth. I held her until some one helped me to pull her out, and then I don’t know what came next.

I waked up, long afterward, in my own bed, in my own room. I seemed to myself to have been quite away from this world, on some long journey. A consciousness of present things came back to me slowly. I recalled with a shudder the hard, sharply cut ice, the water gurgling below, and Ruth, my Ruth, with her great black eyes and her bright, bonny face, going down, down. I cried out,—

“Ruth! Ruth! where are you?”

And then I turned my head, and there, beside me, she lay, my pretty Ruth—mine again, after so long.

“She clung to you so tightly we could not separate you,” I heard my mother say; but all my being was absorbed in looking at Ruth. She was white as death. I had said I would not speak to her again until I saw her lie a-dying. Was she dying now? I lifted myself on my elbow to look at her. I held my own breath to see if any came from her half-parted lips; and as I looked, her eyes unclosed, and she put her arm up,—oh, so feebly!—and struggled to get it round my neck. I bent over her, and one moment our lips clung together, in such a kiss as neither of us had ever known before—a kiss snatched from death, and full of peace and pardon, and the unutterable bliss of a restored love. Then Ruth whispered,—

“Sue, I have been only half a girl since I lost you. I would rather have died there, in the black water from which you saved me, than not to find you again.”

“I thought you were dying, Ruth,” I whispered back, holding her close; “and if you were, I meant to die too. I would have gone after you into the water but what I would have had you back.”

Then we were too weak to say any thing more. We just lay there, our hands clasped closely, in an ineffable content. Our mothers came and went about us; all sorts of tender cares were lavished on us of which we took no heed. I knew only one thing,—that I had won back Ruth; Ruth knew only one thing,—that once more she was by my side.

That was our first and our last quarrel. I think no hasty word was ever spoken between us afterward. The first one had cost us too dear.