Brookhollow

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----"

"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.