His fingers unclasped slowly. "Yes, I will," he said, strangely moved. "It's a beautiful gift—in more ways than one. You are very kind—thank you—good night!"



VII. The Man Who Hesitates

"Isn't fair'," said Winfield to himself, miserably, "no sir, 't isn't fair!"

He sat on the narrow piazza which belonged to Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, and took stern account of his inner self. The morning paper lay beside him, unopened, though his fingers itched to tear the wrapper, and his hat was pulled far down over his eyes, to shade them from the sun.

"If I go up there I'm going to fall in love with her, and I know it!"

That moment of revelation the night before, when soul stood face to face with soul, had troubled him strangely. He knew himself for a sentimentalist where women were concerned, but until they stood at the gate together, he had thought himself safe. Like many another man, on the sunny side of thirty, he had his ideal woman safely enshrined in his inner consciousness.

She was a pretty little thing, this dream maiden—a blonde, with deep blue eyes, a rosy complexion, and a mouth like Cupid's bow. Mentally, she was of the clinging sort, for Winfield did not know that in this he was out of fashion. She had a dainty, bird-like air about her and a high, sweet voice—a most adorable little woman, truly, for a man to dream of when business was not too pressing.

In almost every possible way, Miss Thorne was different. She was dark, and nearly as tall as he was; dignified, self-possessed, and calm, except for flashes of temper and that one impulsive moment. He had liked her, found her interesting in a tantalising sort of way, and looked upon her as an oasis in a social desert, but that was all.

Of course, he might leave the village, but he made a wry face upon discovering, through laboured analysis, that he didn't want to go away. It was really a charming spot—hunting and fishing to be had for the asking, fine accommodations at Mrs. Pendleton's, beautiful scenery, bracing air—in every way it was just what he needed. Should he let himself be frightened out of it by a newspaper woman who lived at the top of the hill? Hardly!

None the less, he realised that a man might firmly believe in Affinity, and, through a chain of unfortunate circumstances, become the victim of Propinquity. He had known of such instances and was now face to face with the dilemma.

Then his face flooded with dull colour. "Darn it," he said to himself, savagely, "what an unmitigated cad I am! All this is on the assumption that she's likely to fall on my neck at any minute! Lord!"

Yet there was a certain comfort in the knowledge that he was safe, even if he should fall in love with Miss Thorne. That disdainful young woman would save him from himself, undoubtedly, when he reached the danger point, if not before.

"I wonder how a fellow would go about it anyway," he thought. "He couldn't make any sentimental remarks, without being instantly frozen. She's like the Boston girls we read about in the funny papers. He couldn't give her things, either, except flowers or books, or sweets, or music. She has more books than she wants, because she reviews'em for the paper, and I don't think she's musical. She doesn't look like the candy fiends, and I imagine she'd pitch a box of chocolates into the sad sea, or give it to Hepsey. There's nothing left but flowers—and I suppose she wouldn't notice'em.

"A man would have to teach her to like him, and, on my soul, I don't know how he'd do that. Constant devotion wouldn't have any effect—I doubt if she'd permit it; and a fellow might stay away from her for six months, without a sign from her. I guess she's cold—no, she isn't, either—eyes and temper like hers don't go with the icebergs.

"I—that is, he couldn't take her out, because there's no place to go. It's different in the city, of course, but if he happened to meet her in the country, as I've done—

"Might ask her to drive, possibly, if I could rent Alfred and Mamie for a few hours—no, we'd have to have the day, for anything over two miles, and that wouldn't be good form, without a chaperone. Not that she needs one—she's equal to any emergency, I fancy. Besides, she wouldn't go. If I could get those two plugs up the hill, without pushing 'em, gravity would take'em back, but I couldn't ask her to walk up the hill after the pleasure excursion was over. I don't believe a drive would entertain her.

"Perhaps she'd like to fish—no, she wouldn't, for she said she didn't like worms. Might sail on the briny deep, except that there's no harbour within ten miles, and she wouldn't trust her fair young life to me. She'd be afraid I'd drown her.

"I suppose the main idea is to cultivate a clinging dependence, but I'd like to see the man who could woo any dependence from Miss Thorne. She holds her head like a thoroughbred touched with the lash. She said she was afraid of Carlton, but I guess she was just trying to be pleasant. I'll tell him about it—no, I won't, for I said I wouldn't.

"I wish there was some other girl here for me to talk to, but I'll be lucky if I can get along peaceably with the one already here. I'll have to discover all her pet prejudices and be careful not to walk on any of 'em. There's that crazy woman, for instance—I mustn't allude to her, even respectfully, if I'm to have any softening feminine influence about me before I go back to town. She didn't seem to believe I had any letter from Carlton—that's what comes of being careless.

"I shouldn't have told her that people said she had large feet and wore men's shoes. She's got a pretty foot; I noticed it particularly before I spoke—I suppose she didn't like that—most girls wouldn't, I guess, but she took it as a hunter takes a fence. Even after that, she said she'd help me be patient, and last night, when she said she'd read the papers to me—she was awfully sweet to me then.

"Perhaps she likes me a little bit—I hope so. She'd never care very much for anybody, though—she's too independent. She wouldn't even let me help her up the hill; I don't know whether it was independence, or whether she didn't want me to touch her. If we ever come to a place where she has to be helped, I suppose I'll have to put gloves on, or let her hold one end of a stick while I hang on to the other.

"Still she didn't take her hand away last night, when I grabbed it. Probably she was thinking about something else, and didn't notice. It's a particularly nice hand to hold, but I'll never have another chance, I guess.

"Carlton said she'd take the conceit out of me, if I had any. I'm glad he didn't put that in the letter, still it doesn't matter, since I've lost it. I wish I hadn't, for what he said about me was really very nice. Carlton is a good fellow.

"How she lit on me when I thought the crazy person might make a good special! Jerusalem! I felt like the dust under her feet. I'd be glad to have anybody stand up for me, like that, but nobody ever will. She's mighty pretty when she's angry, but I'd rather she wouldn't get huffy at me. She's a tremendously nice girl—there's no doubt of that."

At this juncture, Joe came out on the porch, hat in hand. "Mornin', Mr. Winfield."

"Good morning, Joe; how are your troubles this morning?"

"They're ill right, I guess," he replied, pleased with the air of comradeship. "Want me to read the paper to yer?"

"No, thank you, Joe, not this morning."

The tone was a dismissal, but Joe lingered, shifting from one foot to the other. "Ain't I done it to suit yer?"

"Quite so," returned Winfield, serenely.

"I don't mind doin' it," Joe continued, after a long silence. "I won't charge yer nothin'."

"You're very kind, Joe, but I don't care about it to-day." Winfield rose and walked to the other end of the porch. The apple trees were in bloom, and every wandering wind was laden with sweetness. Even the gnarled old tree in Miss Hathaway's yard, that had been out of bearing for many a year, had put forth a bough of fragrant blossoms. He saw it from where he stood; a mass of pink and white against the turquoise sky, and thought that Miss Thorne would make a charming picture if she stood beneath the tree with the blown petals drifting around her.

He lingered upon the vision till Joe spoke again. "Be you goin' up to Miss Hathaway's this mornin'?"

"Why, I don't know," Winfield answered somewhat resentfully, "why?"

"'Cause I wouldn't go—not if I was in your place."

"Why?" he demanded, facing him.

"Miss Hathaway's niece, she's sick."

"Sick!" repeated Winfield, in sudden fear, "what's the matter!"

"Oh,'t ain't nothin' serious, I reckon, cause she's up and around. I've just come from there, and Hepsey said that all night Miss Thorne was a-cryin', and that this mornin' she wouldn't eat no breakfast. She don't never eat much, but this mornin' she wouldn't eat nothin', and she wouldn't say what was wrong with her."

Winfield's face plainly showed his concern.

"She wouldn't eat nothin' last night, neither," Joe went on. "Hepsey told me this mornin' that she thought p'raps you and her had fit. She's your girl, ain't she?"

"No," replied Winfield, "she isn't my girl, and we haven't 'fit.' I'm sorry she isn't well."

He paced back and forth moodily, while Joe watched him in silence. "Well," he said, at length, "I reckon I'll be movin' along. I just thought I'd tell yer."

There was no answer, and Joe slammed the gate in disgust. "I wonder what's the matter," thought Winfield. "'T isn't a letter, for to-day's mail hasn't come and she was all right last night. Perhaps she isn't ill—she said she cried when she was angry. Great Heavens! I hope she isn't angry at me!

"She was awfully sweet to me just before I left her," he continued, mentally, "so I'm not to blame. I wonder if she's angry at herself because she offered to read the papers to me?"

All unknowingly he had arrived at the cause of Miss Thorne's unhappiness. During a wakeful, miserable night, she had wished a thousand times that she might take back those few impulsive words.

"That must be it," he thought, and then his face grew tender. "Bless her sweet heart," he muttered, apropos of nothing, "I'm not going to make her unhappy. It's only her generous impulse, and I won't let her think it's any more."

The little maiden of his dreams was but a faint image just then, as he sat down to plan a course of action which would assuage Miss Thorne's tears. A grey squirrel appeared on the gate post, and sat there, calmly, cracking a nut.

He watched the little creature, absently, and then strolled toward the gate. The squirrel seemed tame and did not move until he was almost near enough to touch it, and then it scampered only a little way.

"I'll catch it," Winfield said to himself, "and take it up to Miss Thorne. Perhaps she'll be pleased."

It was simple enough, apparently, for the desired gift was always close at hand. He followed it across the hill, and bent a score of times to pick it up, but it was a guileful squirrel and escaped with great regularity.

Suddenly, with a flaunt of its bushy tail and a daring, backward glance, it scampered under the gate into Miss Ainslie's garden and Winfield laughed aloud. He had not known he was so near the other house and was about to retreat when something stopped him.

Miss Ainslie stood in the path just behind the gate, with her face ghastly white and her eyes wide with terror, trembling like a leaf. There was a troubled silence, then she said, thickly, "Go!"

"I beg your pardon," he answered, hurriedly, "I did not mean to frighten you."

"Go!" she said again, her lips scarcely moving, "Go!"

"Now what in the mischief have I done;" he thought, as he crept away, feeling like a thief. "I understood that this was a quiet place and yet the strenuous life seems to have struck the village in good earnest.

"What am I, that I should scare the aged and make the young weep? I've always been considered harmless, till now. That must be Miss Thorne's friend, whom I met so unfortunately just now. She's crazy, surely, or she wouldn't have been afraid of me. Poor thing, perhaps I startled her."

He remembered that she had carried a basket and worn a pair of gardening gloves. Even though her face was so changed, for an instant he had seen its beauty—the deep violet eyes, fair skin, and regular features, surmounted by that wonderful crown of silvered hair.

Conflicting emotions swayed him as he wended his way to the top of the hill, with the morning paper in his pocket as an excuse, if he should need one. When he approached the gate, he was seized by a swift and unexplainable fear, and would have turned back, but Miss Hathaway's door was opened.

Then the little maiden of his dreams vanished, waving her hand in token of eternal farewell, for as Ruth came down the path between the white and purple plumes of lilac, with a smile of welcome upon her lips, he knew that, in all the world, there was nothing half so fair.



VIII. Summer Days

The rumble of voices which came from the kitchen was not disturbing, but when the rural lovers began to sit on the piazza, directly under Ruth's window, she felt called upon to remonstrate.

"Hepsey," she asked, one morning, "why don't you and Joe sit under the trees at the side of the house? You can take your chairs out there."

"Miss Hathaway allerss let us set on the piazzer," returned Hepsey, unmoved.

"Miss Hathaway probably sleeps more soundly than I do. You don't want me to hear everything you say, do you?"

Hepsey shrugged her buxom shoulders. "You can if you like, mum."

"But I don't like," snapped Ruth. "It annoys me."

There was an interval of silence, then Hepsey spoke again, of her own accord. "If Joe and me was to set anywheres but in front, he might see the light."

"Well, what of it?"

"Miss Hathaway, she don't want it talked of, and men folks never can keep secrets," Hepsey suggested.

"You wouldn't have to tell him, would you?"

"Yes'm. Men folks has got terrible curious minds. They're all right if they don't know there's nothin', but if they does, why they's keen."

"Perhaps you're right, Hepsey," she replied, biting her lips. "Sit anywhere you please."

There were times when Ruth was compelled to admit that Hepsey's mental gifts were fully equal to her own. It was unreasonable to suppose, even for an instant, that Joe and Hepsey had not pondered long and earnestly upon the subject of the light in the attic window, yet the argument was unanswerable. The matter had long since lost its interest for Ruth—perhaps because she was too happy to care.

Winfield had easily acquired the habit of bringing her his morning papers, and, after the first embarrassment, Ruth settled down to it in a businesslike way. Usually, she sat in Miss Hathaway's sewing chair, under a tree a little way from the house, that she might at the same time have a general supervision of her domain, while Winfield stretched himself upon the grass at her feet. When the sun was bright, he wore his dark glasses, thereby gaining an unfair advantage.

After breakfast, which was a movable feast at the "Widder's," he went after his mail and brought hers also. When he reached the top of the hill, she was always waiting for him.

"This devotion is very pleasing," he remarked, one morning.

"Some people are easily pleased," she retorted. "I dislike to spoil your pleasure, but my stern regard for facts compels me to say that it is not Mr. Winfield I wait for, but the postman."

"Then I'll always be your postman, for I 'do admire' to be waited for, as they have it at the 'Widder's.' Of course, it's more or less of an expense—this morning, for instance, I had to dig up two cents to get one of your valuable manuscripts out of the clutches of an interested government."

"That's nothing," she assured him, "for I save you a quarter every day, by taking Joe's place as reader to Your Highness, not to mention the high tariff on the Sunday papers. Besides, the manuscripts are all in now."

"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, sitting down on the piazza. "Do you know, Miss Thorne, I think there's a great deal of joyous excitement attached to the pursuit of literature. You send out a story, fondly believing that it is destined to make you famous. Time goes on, and you hear nothing from it. You can see your name 'featured' on the advertisements of the magazine, and hear the heavy tread of the fevered mob, on the way to buy up the edition. In the roseate glow of your fancy, you can see not only your cheque, but the things you're going to buy with it. Perhaps you tell your friends, cautiously, that you're writing for such and such a magazine. Before your joy evaporates, the thing comes back from the Dead Letter Office, because you hadn't put on enough postage, and they wouldn't take it in. Or, perhaps they've written 'Return' on the front page in blue pencil, and all over it are little, dark, four-fingered prints, where the office pup has walked on it."

"You seem to be speaking from experience."

"You have guessed it, fair lady, with your usual wonderful insight. Now let's read the paper—do you know, you read much better than Joe does?"

"Really?" Ruth was inclined to be sarcastic, but there was a delicate colour in her cheeks, which pleased his aesthetic sense.

At first, he had had an insatiable thirst for everything in the paper, except the advertisements. The market reports were sacrificed inside of a week, and the obituary notices, weather indications, and foreign despatches soon followed. Later, the literary features were eliminated, but the financial and local news died hard. By the end of June, however, he was satisfied with the headlines.

"No, thank you, I don't want to hear about the murder," he said, in answer to Ruth's ironical question, "nor yet the Summer styles in sleeves. All that slop on the Woman's Page, about making home happy, is not suited to such as I, and I'll pass."

"There's a great deal here that's very interesting," returned Ruth, "and I doubt if I myself could have crammed more solid knowledge into one Woman's Page. Here's a full account of a wealthy lady's Summer home, and a description of a poor woman's garden, and eight recipes, and half a column on how to keep a husband at home nights, and plans for making a china closet out of an old bookcase."

"If there's anything that makes me dead tired," remarked Winfield, "it's that homemade furniture business."

"For once, we agree," answered Ruth. "I've read about it till I'm completely out of patience. Shirtwaist boxes from soap boxes, dressing tables from packing boxes, couches from cots, hall lamps from old arc light globes, and clothes hampers from barrels—all these I endured, but the last straw was a 'transformed kitchen.'"

"Tell me about it," begged Winfield, who was enjoying himself hugely.

"The stove was to be set into the wall," began Ruth, "and surrounded with marble and white tiling, or, if this was too expensive, it was to be hidden from view by a screen of Japanese silk. A nice oak settle, hand carved, which 'the young husband might make in his spare moments,' was to be placed in front of it, and there were to be plate racks and shelves on the walls, to hold the rare china. Charming kitchen!"

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone like stars. "You're an awfully funny girl," said Winfield, quietly, "to fly into a passion over a 'transformed kitchen' that you never saw. Why don't you save your temper for real things?"

She looked at him, meaningly, and he retreated in good order. "I think I'm a tactful person," he continued, hurriedly, "because I get on so well with you. Most of the time, we're as contented as two kittens in a basket."

"My dear Mr. Winfield," returned Ruth, pleasantly, "you're not only tactful, but modest. I never met a man whose temperament so nearly approached the unassuming violet. I'm afraid you'll never be appreciated in this world—you're too good for it. You must learn to put yourself forward. I expect it will be a shock to your sensitive nature, but it's got to be done."

"Thank you," he laughed. "I wish we were in town now, and I'd begin to put myself forward by asking you out to dinner and afterward to the theatre."

"Why don't you take me out to dinner here?" she asked.

"I wouldn't insult you by offering you the 'Widder's' cooking. I mean a real dinner, with striped ice cream at the end of it."

"I'll go," she replied, "I can't resist the blandishments of striped ice cream."

"Thank you again; that gives me courage to speak of something that has lain very near my heart for a long time."

"Yes?" said Ruth, conventionally. For the moment she was frightened.

"I've been thinking fondly of your chafing-dish, though I haven't been allowed to see it yet, and I suppose there's nothing in the settlement to cook in it, is there?"

"Nothing much, surely."

"We might have some stuff sent out from the city, don't you think so?"

"Canned things?"

"Yes—anything that would keep."

Aided and abetted by Winfield, she made out a list of articles which were unknown to the simple-minded inhabitants of the village.

"I'll attend to the financial part of it," he said, pocketing the list, "and then, my life will be in your hands."

After he went away, Ruth wished she knew more about the gentle art of cooking, which, after all, is closely allied to the other one—of making enemies. She decided to dispense with Hepsey's services, when Winfield came up to dinner, and to do everything herself.

She found an old cook book of Aunt Jane's and turned over its pages with new interest. It was in manuscript form, and seemed to represent the culinary knowledge of the entire neighbourhood. Each recipe was duly accredited to its original author, and there were many newspaper clippings, from the despised "Woman's Page" in various journals.

Ruth thought it would be an act of kindness to paste the loose clippings into Aunt Jane's book, and she could look them over as she fastened them in. The work progressed rapidly, until she found a clipping which was not a recipe. It was a perfunctory notice of the death of Charles Winfield, dated almost eighteen years ago.

She remembered the various emotions old newspapers had given her when she first came to Aunt Jane's. This was Abigail Weatherby's husband—he had survived her by a dozen years. "I'm glad it's Charles Winfield instead of Carl," thought Ruth, as she put it aside, and went on with her work.

"Pantry's come," announced Winfield, a few days later; "I didn't open it, but I think everything is there. Joe's going to bring it up."

"Then you can come to dinner Sunday," answered Ruth, smiling.

"I'll be here," returned Winfield promptly. "What time do we dine?"

"I don't know exactly. It's better to wait, I think, until Hepsey goes out. She always regards me with more or less suspicion, and it makes me uncomfortable."

Sunday afternoon, the faithful Joe drove up to the gate, and Hepsey emerged from her small back room, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. She was radiant in a brilliant blue silk, which was festooned at irregular intervals with white silk lace. Her hat was bending beneath its burden of violets and red roses, starred here and there with some unhappy buttercups which had survived the wreck of a previous millinery triumph. Her hands were encased in white cotton gloves, which did not fit.

With Joe's assistance, she entered the vehicle and took her place proudly on the back seat, even while he pleaded for her to sit beside him.

"You know yourself that I can't drive nothin' from the back seat," he complained.

"Nobody's askin' you to drive nothin' from nowhere," returned Hepsey, scornfully. "If you can't take me out like a lady, I ain't a-goin'."

Ruth was dazzled by the magnificence of the spectacle and was unable to take her eyes away from it, even after Joe had turned around and started down hill. She thought Winfield would see them pass his door and time his arrival accordingly, so she was startled when he came up behind her and said, cheerfully:

"They look like a policeman's, don't they?"

"What—who?"

"Hepsey's hands—did you think I meant yours?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Nearly thirty years."

"That wasn't what I meant," said Ruth, colouring. "How long have you been at Aunt Jane's?"

"Oh, that's different. When Joe went out to harness his fiery steeds to his imposing chariot, I went around through the woods, across the beach, climbed a vertical precipice, and came up this side of the hill. I had to wait some little time, but I had a front seat during the show."

He brought out her favourite chair, placing it under the maple tree, then sat down near her. "I should think you'd get some clothes like Hepsey's," he began. "I'll wager, now, that you haven't a gown like that in your entire wardrobe."

"You're right—I haven't. The nearest approach to it is a tailored gown, lined with silk, which Hepsey thinks I should wear wrong side out."

"How long will the coast be clear?"

"Until nine o'clock, I think. They go to church in the evening."

"It's half past three now," he observed, glancing at his watch. "I had fried salt pork, fried eggs, and fried potatoes for breakfast. I've renounced coffee, for I can't seem to get used to theirs. For dinner, we had round steak, fried, more fried potatoes, and boiled onions. Dried apple pie for dessert—I think I'd rather have had the mince I refused this morning."

"I'll feed you at five o'clock," she said, smiling.

"That seems like a long time," he complained.

"It won't, after you begin to entertain me."

It was after five before either realised it. "Come on," she said, "you can sit in the kitchen and watch me."

He professed great admiration while she put on one of Hepsey's white aprons, and when she appeared with the chafing-dish, his emotion was beyond speech. He was allowed to open the box and to cut up some button mushrooms, while she shredded cold chicken. "I'm getting hungry every minute," he said, "and if there is undue postponement, I fear I shall assimilate all the raw material in sight—including the cook."

Ruth laughed happily. She was making a sauce with real cream, seasoned delicately with paprika and celery salt. "Now I'll put in the chicken and mushrooms," she said, "and you can stir it while I make toast."

They were seated at the table in the dining-room and the fun was at its height, when they became aware of a presence. Hepsey stood in the door, apparently transfixed with surprise, and with disapproval evident in every line of her face. Before either could speak, she was gone.

Though Ruth was very much annoyed, the incident seemingly served to accentuate Winfield's enjoyment. The sound of wheels on the gravel outside told them that she was continuing her excursion.

"I'm going to discharge her to-morrow," Ruth said.

"You can't—she is in Miss Hathaway's service, not yours. Besides, what has she done? She came back, probably, after something she had forgotten. You have no reasonable ground for discharging her, and I think you'd be more uncomfortable if she went than if she stayed."

"Perhaps you're right," she admitted.

"I know how you feel about it," he went on, "but I hope you won't let her distress you. It doesn't make a bit of difference to me; she's only amusing. Please don't bother about it."

"I won't," said Ruth, "that is, I'll try not to."

They piled the dishes in the sink, "as a pleasant surprise for Hepsey," he said, and the hours passed as if on wings. It was almost ten o'clock before it occurred to Winfield that his permanent abode was not Miss Hathaway's parlour.

As they stood at the door, talking, the last train came in. "Do you know," said Winfield, "that every night, just as that train comes in, your friend down there puts a candle in her front window?"

"Well," rejoined Ruth, sharply, "what of it? It's a free country, isn't it?"

"Very. Untrammelled press and highly independent women. Good night, Miss Thorne. I'll be up the first thing in the morning."

She was about to speak, but slammed the door instead, and was displeased when she heard a smothered laugh from outside.



IX. By Humble Means

As lightly as a rose petal upon the shimmering surface of a stream, Summer was drifting away, but whither, no one seemed to care. The odour of printer's ink upon the morning paper no longer aroused vain longings in Winfield's breast, and Ruth had all but forgotten her former connection with the newspaper world.

By degrees, Winfield had arranged a routine which seemed admirable. Until luncheon time, he was with Ruth and, usually, out of doors, according to prescription. In the afternoon, he went up again, sometimes staying to dinner, and, always, he spent his evenings there.

"Why don't you ask me to have my trunk sent up here?" he asked Ruth, one day.

"I hadn't thought of it," she laughed. "I suppose it hasn't seemed necessary."

"Miss Hathaway would be pleased, wouldn't she, if she knew she had two guests instead of one?"

"Undoubtedly; how could she help it?"

"When do you expect her to return?"

"I don't know—I haven't heard a word from her. Sometimes I feel a little anxious about her." Ruth would have been much concerned for her relative's safety, had she known that the eccentric lady had severed herself from the excursion and gone boldly into Italy, unattended, and with no knowledge of the language.

Hepsey inquired daily for news of Miss Hathaway, but no tidings were forthcoming. She amused herself in her leisure moments by picturing all sorts of disasters in which her mistress was doubtless engulfed, and in speculating upon the tie between Miss Thorne and Mr. Winfield.

More often than not, it fell to Hepsey to light the lamp in the attic window, though she did it at Miss Thorne's direction. "If I forget it, Hepsey," she had said, calmly, "you'll see to it, won't you?"

Trunks, cedar chests, old newspapers, and long hidden letters were out of Ruth's province now. Once in two or three weeks, she went to see Miss Ainslie, but never stayed long, though almost every day she reproached herself for neglect.

Winfield's days were filled with peace, since he had learned how to get on with Miss Thorne. When she showed herself stubborn and unyielding, he retreated gracefully, and with a suggestion of amusement, as a courtier may step aside gallantly for an angry lady to pass. Ruth felt his mental attitude and, even though she resented it, she was ashamed.

Having found that she could have her own way, she became less anxious for it, and several times made small concessions, which were apparently unconscious, but amusing, nevertheless. She had none of the wiles of the coquette; she was transparent, and her friendliness was disarming. If she wanted Winfield to stay at home any particular morning or afternoon, she told him so. At first he was offended, but afterward learned to like it, for she could easily have instructed Hepsey to say that she was out.

The pitiless, unsympathetic calendar recorded the fact that July was near its end, and Ruth sighed—then hated herself for it.

She had grown accustomed to idleness, and, under the circumstances, liked it far too well.

One morning, when she went down to breakfast, Hepsey was evidently perplexed about something, but Ruth took no outward note of it, knowing that it would be revealed ere long.

"Miss Thorne," she said, tentatively, as Ruth rose from the table.

"Yes?"

"Of course, Miss Thorne, I reckon likely't ain't none of my business, but is Mr. Winfield another detective, and have you found anything out yet?"

Ruth, inwardly raging, forced herself to let the speech pass unnoticed, and sailed majestically out of the room. She was surprised to discover that she could be made so furiously angry by so small a thing.

Winfield was coming up the hill with the mail, and she tried to cool her hot cheeks with her hands. "Let's go down on the side of the hill," she said, as he gave her some letters and the paper; "it's very warm in the sun, and I'd like the sea breeze."

They found a comparatively level place, with two trees to lean against, and, though they were not far from the house, they were effectually screened by the rising ground. Ruth felt that she could not bear the sight of Hepsey just then.

After glancing at her letters she began to read aloud, with a troubled haste which did not escape him. "Here's a man who had a little piece of bone taken out of the inside of his skull," she said. "Shall I read about that? He seems, literally, to have had something on his mind."

"You're brilliant this morning," answered Winfield, gravely, and she laughed hysterically.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked. "You don't seem like yourself."

"It isn't nice of you to say that," she retorted, "considering your previous remark."

There was a rumble and a snort on the road and, welcoming the diversion, he went up to reconnoitre. "Joe's coming; is there anything you want in the village?"

"No," she answered, wearily, "there's nothing I want—anywhere."

"You're an exceptional woman," returned Winfield, promptly, "and I'd advise you to sit for your photograph. The papers would like it—'Picture of the Only Woman Who Doesn't Want Anything'—why, that would work off an extra in about ten minutes!"

Ruth looked at him for a moment, then turned her eyes away. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, and was about to offer atonement when Joe's deep bass voice called out:

"Hello!"

"Hello yourself!" came in Hepsey's highest tones, from the garden.

"Want anything to-day?"

"Nope!"

There was a brief pause, and then Joe shouted again: "Hepsey!"

"Well?"

"I should think they'd break their vocal cords," said Winfield.

"I wish they would," rejoined Ruth, quickly.

"Come here!" yelled Joe. "I want to talk to yer."

"Talk from there," screamed Hepsey.

"Where's yer folks?"

"D'know."

"Say, be they courtin'?"

Hepsey left her work in the garden and came toward the front of the house. "They walk out some," she said, when she was halfway to the gate, "and they set up a good deal, and Miss Thorne told me she didn't know as she'd do better, but you can't rightly say they're courtin' 'cause city ways ain't like our'n."

The deep colour dyed Ruth's face and her hands twitched nervously. Winfield very much desired to talk, but could think of nothing to say. The situation was tense.

Joe clucked to his horses. "So long," he said. "See yer later."

Ruth held her breath until he passed them, and then broke down. Her self control was quite gone, and she sobbed bitterly, in grief and shame. Winfield tucked his handkerchief into her cold hands, not knowing what else to do.

"Don't!" he said, as if he, too, had been hurt. "Ruth, dear, don't cry!"

A new tenderness almost unmanned him, but he sat still with his hands clenched, feeling like a brute because of her tears.

The next few minutes seemed like an hour, then Ruth raised her head and tried to smile. "I expect you think I'm silly," she said, hiding her tear stained face again.

"No!" he cried, sharply; then, with a catch in his throat, he put his hand on her shoulder.

"Don't!" she sobbed, turning away from him, "what—what they said—was bad enough!"

The last words ended in a rush of tears, and, sorely distressed, he began to walk back and forth. Then a bright idea came to him.

"I'll be back in a minute," he said.

When he returned, he had a tin dipper, freshly filled with cold water. "Don't cry any more," he pleaded, gently, "I'm going to bathe your face."

Ruth leaned back against the tree and he knelt beside her. "Oh, that feels so good," she said, gratefully, as she felt his cool fingers upon her burning eyes. In a little while she was calm again, though her breast still heaved with every fluttering breath.

"You poor little woman," he said, tenderly, "you're just as nervous as you can be. Don't feel so about it. Just suppose it was somebody who wasn't!"

"Who wasn't what?" asked Ruth, innocently.

Winfield crimsoned to the roots of his hair and hurled the dipper into the distance.

"What—what—they said," he stammered, sitting down awkwardly. "Oh, darn it!" He kicked savagely at a root, and added, in bitterest self accusation, "I'm a chump, I am!"

"No you're not," returned Ruth, with sweet shyness, "you're nice. Now we'll read some more of the paper."

He assumed a feverish interest in the market reports, but his thoughts were wandering. Certainly, nothing could have been worse. He felt as if a bud, which he had been long and eagerly watching, was suddenly torn open by a vandal hand. When he first touched Ruth's eyes with his finger tips, he had trembled like a schoolboy, and he wondered if she knew it.

If she did, she made no sign. Her cheeks were flushed, the lids of her downcast eyes were pink, and her voice had lost its crisp, incisive tones, but she read rapidly, without comment or pause, until the supply of news gave out. Then she began on the advertisements, dreading the end of her task and vainly wishing for more papers, though in her heart there was something sweet, which, even to herself, she dared not name.

"That'll do," he said, abruptly, "I'm not interested in the 'midsummer glove clearing.' I meant to tell you something when I first came—I've got to go away."

Ruth's heart throbbed painfully, as if some cold hand held it fast. "Yes," she said, politely, not recognising her own voice.

"It's only for a week—I've got to go to the oculist and see about some other things. I'll be back before long."

"I shall miss you," she said, conventionally. Then she saw that he was going away to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence, and blessed him accordingly.

"When are you going?" she asked.

"This afternoon. I don't want to go, but it's just as well to have it over with. Can I do anything for you in the city?"

"No, thank you. My wants are few and, at present, well supplied."

"Don't you want me to match something for you? I thought women always had pieces of stuff that had to be matched immediately."

"They made you edit the funny column, didn't they?" she asked, irrelevantly.

"They did, Miss Thorne, and, moreover, I expect I'll have to do it again."

After a little, they were back on the old footing, yet everything was different, for there was an obtruding self consciousness on either side. "What time do you go?" she asked, with assumed indifference.

"Three-fifteen, I think, and it's after one now."

He walked back to the house with her, and, for the second time that day, Hepsey came out to sweep the piazza.

"Good bye, Miss Thorne," he said.

"Good bye, Mr. Winfield."

That was all, but Ruth looked up with an unspoken question and his eyes met hers clearly, with no turning aside. She knew he would come back very soon and she understood his answer—that he had the right.

As she entered the house, Hepsey said, pleasantly: "Has he gone away, Miss Thorne?"

"Yes," she answered, without emotion. She was about to say that she did not care for luncheon, then decided that she must seem to care.

Still, it was impossible to escape that keen-eyed observer. "You ain't eatin' much," she suggested.

"I'm not very hungry."

"Be you sick, Miss Thorne?"

"No—not exactly. I've been out in the sun and my head aches," she replied, clutching at the straw.

"Do you want a wet rag?"

Ruth laughed, remembering an earlier suggestion of Winfield's. "No, I don't want any wet rag, Hepsey, but I'll go up to my room for a little while, I think. Please don't disturb me."

She locked her door, shutting out all the world from the nameless joy that surged in her heart. The mirror disclosed flushed, feverish cheeks and dark eyes that shone like stars. "Ruth Thorne," she said to herself, "I'm ashamed of you! First you act like a fool and then like a girl of sixteen!"

Then her senses became confused and the objects in the room circled around her unsteadily. "I'm tired," she murmured. Her head sank drowsily into the lavender scented pillow and she slept too soundly to take note of the three o'clock train leaving the station. It was almost sunset when she was aroused by voices under her window.

"That feller's gone home," said Joe.

"Do tell!" exclaimed Hepsey. "Did he pay his board?"

"Yep, every cent. He's a-comin' back."

"When?"

"D'know. Don't she know?" The emphasis indicated Miss Thorne.

"I guess not," answered Hepsey. "They said good bye right in front of me, and there wa'n't nothin' said about it."

"They ain't courtin', then," said Joe, after a few moments of painful thought, and Ruth, in her chamber above, laughed happily to herself.

"Mebbe not," rejoined Hepsey. "It ain't fer sech as me to say when there's courtin' and when there ain't, after havin' gone well nigh onto five year with a country loafer what ain't never said nothin'." She stalked into the house, closed the door, and noisily bolted it. Joe stood there for a moment, as one struck dumb, then gave a long, low whistle of astonishment and walked slowly down the hill.



X. Love Letters

"A week!" Ruth said to herself the next morning. "Seven long days! No letter, because he mustn't write, no telegram, because there's no office within ten miles—nothing to do but wait!"

When she went down to breakfast, Hepsey did not seem to hear her cheery greeting, but was twisting her apron and walking about restlessly. "Miss Thorne," she said, at length, "did you ever get a love letter?"

"Why, yes, of course," laughed Ruth. "Every girl gets love letters."

Hepsey brightened visibly, then inquired, with great seriousness: "Can you read writin', Miss Thorne?"

"That depends on the writing."

"Yes'm, it does so. I can read some writin'—I can read Miss Hathaway's writin', and some of the furrin letters she's had, but I got some this mornin' I can't make out, nohow."

"Where did you find 'writing' this morning? It's too early for the mail, isn't it?"

"Yes'm. It was stuck under the kitchen winder." Hepsey looked up at the ceiling in an effort to appear careless, and sighed. Then she clutched violently at the front of her blue gingham dress, immediately repenting of her rashness. Ruth was inwardly amused but asked no helpful questions.

Finally, Hepsey took the plunge. "Would you mind tryin' to make out some writin' I've got, Miss Thorne?"

"Of course not—let me see it."

Hepsey extracted a letter from the inmost recesses of her attire and stood expectantly, with her hands on her hips.

"Why, it's a love letter!" Ruth exclaimed.

"Yes'm. When you get through readin' it to yourself, will you read it out loud?"

The letter, which was written on ruled note paper, bore every evidence of care and thought. "Hepsey," it began, and, on the line below, with a great flourish under it, "Respected Miss" stood, in large capitals.

"Although it is now but a short interval," Ruth read, "since my delighted eyes first rested on your beautiful form—"

"Five year!" interjected Hepsey.

"—yet I dare to hope that you will receive graciously what I am about to say, as I am assured you will, if you reciprocate the sentiments which you have aroused in my bosom.

"In this short time, dear Miss, brief though it is, yet it has proved amply sufficient for my heart to go out to you in a yearning love which I have never before felt for one of your sex. Day by day and night by night your glorious image has followed me."

"That's a lie," interrupted Hepsey, "he knows I never chased him nowheres, not even when he took that red-headed Smith girl to the Sunday-school picnic over to the Ridge, a year ago come August."

"Those dark tresses have entwined my soul in their silken meshes, those deep eyes, that have borrowed their colour from Heaven's cerulean blue, and those soft white hands, that have never been roughened by uncongenial toil, have been ever present in my dreams."

Ruth paused for a moment, overcome by her task, but Hepsey's face was radiant. "Hurry up, Miss Thorne," she said, impatiently.

"In short, Dear Miss, I consider you the most surpassingly lovely of your kind, and it is with pride swelling in my manly bosom that I dare to ask so peerless a jewel for her heart and hand.

"My parentage, birth, and breeding are probably known to you, but should any points remain doubtful, I will be pleased to present references as to my character and standing in the community.

"I await with impatience, Madam, your favourable answer to my plea. Rest assured that if you should so honour me as to accept my proposal, I will endeavour to stand always between you and the hard, cruel world, as your faithful shield. I will also endeavour constantly to give you a happiness as great as that which will immediately flood my bing upon receipt of your blushing acceptance.

"I remain, Dear Miss, your devoted lover and humble servant,

"JOSEPH PENDLETON, ESQ."

"My! My!" ejaculated Hepsey. "Ain't that fine writin'!"

"It certainly is," responded Miss Thorne, keeping her face straight with difficulty.

"Would you mind readin' it again?"

She found the second recital much easier, since she was partially accustomed to the heavy punctuation marks and shaded flourishes. At first, she had connected Winfield with the effusion, but second thought placed the blame where it belonged—at the door of a "Complete Letter Writer."

"Miss Thorne," said Hepsey, hesitating.

"Yes?"

"Of course, I'd like my answer to be as good writin' as his'n."

"Naturally."

"Where d'you s'pose he got all that lovely grammar?"

"Grammar is a rare gift, Hepsey."

"Yes'm,'t is so. Miss Thorne, do you guess you could write as good as that?"

"I'd be willing to try," returned Ruth, with due humility.

Hepsey thought painfully for a few moments. "I'd know jest what I'd better say. Now, last night, I give Joe a hint, as you may say, but I wouldn't want him to think I'd jest been a-waitin' for him."

"No, of course not."

"Ain't it better to keep him in suspense, as you may say?"

"Far better, Hepsey; he'll think more of you."

"Then I'll jest write that I'm willin' to think it over, and if you'll put it on a piece of paper fer me, I'll write it out with ink. I've got two sheets of paper jest like this, with nice blue lines onto it, that I've been a-savin' fer a letter, and Miss Hathaway, she's got ink."

Ruth sat down to compose an answer which should cast a shadow over the "Complete Letter Writer." Her pencil flew over the rough copy paper with lightning speed, while Hepsey stood by in amazement.

"Listen," she said, at length, "how do you like this?"

"MR. JOSEPH PENDLETON—

"Respected Sir: Although your communication of recent date was a great surprise to me, candour compels me to confess that it was not entirely disagreeable. I have observed, though with true feminine delicacy, that your affections were inclined to settle in my direction, and have not repelled your advances.

"Still, I do not feel that as yet we are sufficiently acquainted to render immediate matrimony either wise or desirable, and since the suddenness of your proposal has in a measure taken my breath away, I must beg that you will allow me a proper interval in which to consider the matter, and, in the meantime, think of me simply as your dearest friend.

"I may add, in conclusion, that your character and standing in the community are entirely satisfactory to me. Thanking you for the honour you have conferred upon me, believe me, Dear Sir,

"Your sincere friend,

"HEPSEY."

"My!" exclaimed Hepsey, with overmastering pride; "ain't that beautiful! It's better than his'n, ain't it?"

"I wouldn't say that," Ruth replied, with proper modesty, "but I think it will do."

"Yes'm. 'Twill so. Your writin' ain't nothin' like Joe's," she continued, scanning it closely, "but it's real pretty." Then a bright idea illuminated her countenance. "Miss Thorne, if you'll write it out on the note paper with a pencil, I can go over it with the ink, and afterward, when it's dry, I'll rub out the pencil. It'll be my writin' then, but it'll look jest like yours."

"All right, Hepsey."

She found it difficult to follow the lines closely, but at length achieved a respectable result. "I'll take good care of it," Hepsey said, wrapping the precious missive in a newspaper, "and this afternoon, when I get my work done up, I'll fix it. Joe'll be surprised, won't he?"

Late in the evening, when Hepsey came to Ruth, worn with the unaccustomed labours of correspondence, and proudly displayed the nondescript epistle, she was compelled to admit that unless Joe had superhuman qualities he would indeed "be surprised."

The next afternoon Ruth went down to Miss Ainslie's. "You've been neglecting me, dear," said that gentle soul, as she opened the door.

"I haven't meant to," returned Ruth, conscience-stricken, as she remembered how long it had been since the gate of the old-fashioned garden had swung on its hinges for her.

A quiet happiness had settled down upon Ruth and the old perturbed spirit was gone, but Miss Ainslie was subtly different. "I feel as if something was going to happen," she said.

"Something nice?"

"I—don't know." The sweet face was troubled and there were fine lines about the mouth, such as Ruth had never seen there before.

"You're nervous, Miss Ainslie—it's my turn to scold now."

"I never scolded you, did I deary?"

"You couldn't scold anybody—you're too sweet. You're not unhappy, are you, Miss Ainslie?"

"I? Why, no! Why should I be unhappy?" Her deep eyes were fixed upon Ruth.

"I—I didn't know," Ruth answered, in confusion.

"I learned long ago," said Miss Ainslie, after a little, "that we may be happy or not, just as we choose. Happiness is not a circumstance, nor a set of circumstances; it's only a light, and we may keep it burning if we will. So many of us are like children, crying for the moon, instead of playing contentedly with the few toys we have. We're always hoping for something, and when it does n't come we fret and worry; when it does, why there's always something else we'd rather have. We deliberately make nearly all of our unhappiness, with our own unreasonable discontent, and nothing will ever make us happy, deary, except the spirit within."

"But, Miss Ainslie," Ruth objected, "do you really think everybody can be happy?"

"Of course—everybody who wishes to be. Some people are happier when they're miserable. I don't mean, deary, that it's easy for any of us, and it's harder for some than for others, all because we never grow up. We're always children—our playthings are a little different, that's all."

"'Owning ourselves forever children,' quoted Ruth, "'gathering pebbles on a boundless shore.'"

"Yes, I was just thinking of that. A little girl breaks her doll, and though the new one may be much prettier, it never wholly fills the vacant place, and it's that way with a woman's dream." The sweet voice sank into a whisper, followed by a lingering sigh.

"Miss Ainslie," said Ruth, after a pause, "did you know my mother?"

"No, I didn't, deary—I'm sorry. I saw her once or twice, but she went away, soon after we came here."

"Never mind," Ruth said, hurriedly, for Mrs. Thorne's family had never forgiven her runaway marriage.

"Come into the garden," Miss Ainslie suggested, and Ruth followed her, willingly, into the cloistered spot where golden lilies tinkled, thrushes sang, and every leaf breathed peace.

Miss Ainslie gathered a bit of rosemary, crushing it between her white fingers. "See," she said, "some of us are like that it takes a blow to find the sweetness in our souls. Some of us need dry, hard places, like the poppies "—pointing to a mass of brilliant bloom—"and some of us are always thorny, like the cactus, with only once in a while a rosy star.

"I've always thought my flowers had souls, dear," she went on; "they seem like real people to me. I've seen the roses rubbing their cheeks together as if they loved each other, and the forget-me-nots are little blue-eyed children, half afraid of the rest.

"Over there, it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She's one of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her sweetness lingers long after she goes away. I gather all the flowers, and every leaf, though the flowers are sweetest. I put the leaves away with my linen and the flowers among my laces. I have some beautiful lace, deary."

"I know you have—I've often admired it."

"I'm going to show it to you some day," she said, with a little quiver in her voice, "and some other day, when I can't wear it any more, you shall have some of it for your own."

"Don't, Miss Ainslie," cried Ruth, the quick tears coming to her eyes, "I don't want any lace—I want you!"

"I know," she answered, but there was a far-away look in her eyes, and something in her voice that sounded like a farewell.

"Miss Thorne," called Joe from the gate, "here's a package for yer. It come on the train."

He waited until Ruth went to him and seemed disappointed when she turned back into the garden. "Say," he shouted, "is Hepsey to home?"

Ruth was busy with the string and did not hear. "Oh, look!" she exclaimed, "what roses!"

"They're beautiful, deary. I do not think I have ever seen such large ones. Do you know what they are?"

"American Beauties—they're from Mr. Winfield. He knows I love them."

Miss Ainslie started violently. "From whom, dear?" she asked, in a strange tone.

"Mr. Winfield—he's going to be on the same paper with me in the Fall. He's here for the Summer, on account of his eyes."

Miss Ainslie was bending over the lavender.

"It is a very common name, is it not?" she asked.

"Yes, quite common," answered Ruth, absently, taking the roses out of the box.

"You must bring him to see me some time, dear; I should like to know him."

"Thank you, Miss Ainslie, I will."

They stood at the gate together, and Ruth put a half blown rose into her hand. "I wouldn't give it to anybody but you," she said, half playfully, and then Miss Ainslie knew her secret. She put her hand on Ruth's arm and looked down into her face, as if there was something she must say.

"I don't forget the light, Miss Ainslie."

"I know," she breathed, in answer. She looked long and searchingly into Ruth's eyes, then whispered brokenly, "God bless you, dear. Good bye!"



XI. The Rose of all the World

"He didn't forget me! He didn't forget me!" Ruth's heart sang in time with her step as she went home. Late afternoon flooded all the earth with gold, and from the other side of the hill came the gentle music of the sea.

The doors were open, but there was no trace of Hepsey. She put the roses in her water pitcher, and locked her door upon them as one hides a sacred joy. She went out again, her heart swelling like the throat of a singing bird, and walked to the brow of the cliff, with every sense keenly alive. Upon the surface of the ocean lay that deep, translucent blue which only Tadema has dared to paint.

"I must go down," she murmured.

Like a tawny ribbon trailed upon the green, the road wound down the hill. She followed it until she reached the side path on the right, and went down into the woods. The great boughs arched over her head like the nave of a cathedral, and the Little People of the Forest, in feathers and fur, scattered as she approached. Bright eyes peeped at her from behind tree trunks, or the safe shelter of branches, and rippling bird music ended in a frightened chirp,

"Oh," she said aloud, "don't be afraid!"

Was this love, she wondered, that lay upon her eyes like the dew of a Spring morning, that made the air vocal with rapturous song, and wrought white magic in her soul? It had all the mystery ind freshness of the world's beginning; it was the rush of waters where sea and river meet, the perfume of a flower, and the far light trembling from a star. It was sunrise where there had been no day, the ecstasy of a thousand dawns; a new sun gleaming upon noon. All the joy of the world surged and beat in her pulses, till it seemed that her heart had wings.

Sunset came upon the water, the colour on the horizon reflecting soft iridescence upon the blue. Slow sapphire surges broke at her feet, tossing great pearls of spray against the cliff. Suddenly, as if by instinct, she turned—and faced Winfield.

"Thank you for the roses," she cried, with her face aglow.

He gathered her into his arms. "Oh, my Rose of All the World," he murmured, "have I found you at last?"

It was almost dusk when they turned to go home, with their arms around each other, as if they were the First Two, wandering through the shaded groves of Paradise, before sin came into the world.

"Did you think it would be like this?" she asked, shyly.

"No, I didn't, darling. I thought it would be very prim and proper. I never dreamed you'd let me kiss you—yes, I did, too, but I thought it was too good to be true."

"I had to—to let you," she explained, crimsoning, "but nobody ever did before. I always thought—" Then Ruth hid her face against his shoulder, in maidenly shame.

When they came to the log across the path, they sat down, very close together. "You said we'd fight if we came here," Ruth whispered.

"We're not going to, though. I want to tell you something, dear, and I haven't had the words for it till now."

"What is it?" she asked, in alarm.

"It's only that I love you, Ruth," he said, holding her closer, "and when I've said that, I've said all. It isn't an idle word; it's all my life that I give you, to do with as you will. It isn't anything that's apart from you, or ever could be; it's as much yours as your hands or eyes are. I didn't know it for a little while—that's because I was blind. To think that I should go up to see you, even that first day, without knowing you for my sweetheart—my wife!"

"No, don't draw away from me. You little wild bird, are you afraid of Love? It's the sweetest thing God ever let a man dream of, Ruth—there's nothing like it in all the world. Look up, Sweet Eyes, and say you love me!"

Ruth's head drooped, and he put his hand under her chin, turning her face toward him, but her eyes were downcast still. "Say it, darling," he pleaded.

"I—I can't," she stammered.

"Why, dear?"

"Because—because—you know."

"I want you to say it, sweetheart. Won't you?"

"Sometime, perhaps."

"When?"

"When—when it's dark."

"It's dark now."

"No it isn't. How did you know?"

"How did I know what, dear?"

"That I—that I—cared."

"I knew the day you cried. I didn't know myself until then, but it all came in a minute."

"I was afraid you were going to stay away a whole week."

"I couldn't, darling—I just had to come."

"Did you see everybody you wanted to see?"

"I couldn't see anything but your face, Ruth, with the tears on it. I've got to go back to-morrow and have another try at the oculist."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, in acute disappointment.

"It's the last time, sweetheart; we'll never be separated again."

"Never?"

"Never in all the world—nor afterward."

"I expect you think I'm silly," she said, wiping her eyes, as they rose to go home, "but I don't want you to go away."

"I don't want to go, dearest. If you're going to cry, you'll have me a raving maniac. I can't stand it, now."

"I'm not going to," she answered, smiling through her tears, "but it's a blessed privilege to have a nice stiff collar and a new tie to cry on."

"They're at your service, dear, for anything but that. I suppose we're engaged now, aren't we?"

"I don't know," said Ruth, in a low tone; "you haven't asked me to marry you."

"Do you want me to?"

"It's time, isn't it?"

Winfield bent over and whispered to her.

"I must think about it," said Ruth, very gravely, "it's so sudden."

"Oh, you sweet girl," he laughed, "aren't you going to give me any encouragement?"

"You've had some."

"I want another," he answered, purposely misunderstanding her, "and besides, it's dark now."

The sweet-scented twilight still lingered on the hillside, and a star or two gleamed through the open spaces above. A moment later, Ruth, in her turn, whispered to him. It was only a word or two, but the bright-eyed robins who were peeping at them from the maple branches must have observed that it was highly satisfactory.



XII. Bride and Groom

Though Winfield had sternly determined to go back to town the following day, he did not achieve departure until later. Ruth went to the station with him, and desolation came upon her when the train pulled out, in spite of the new happiness in her heart.

She had little time to miss him, however, for, at the end of the week, and in accordance with immemorial custom, the Unexpected happened.

She was sitting at her window one morning, trying to sew, when the village chariot stopped at the gate and a lady descended. Joe stirred lazily on the front seat, but she said, in a clear, high-pitched voice: "You needn't trouble yourself, Joe. He'll carry the things."

She came toward the house, fanning herself with a certain stateliness, and carrying her handkerchief primly, by the exact centre of it. In her wake was a little old gentleman, with a huge bundle, surrounded by a shawl-strap, a large valise, much the worse for wear, a telescope basket which was expanded to its full height, and two small parcels. A cane was tucked under one arm and an umbrella under the other. He could scarcely be seen behind the mountain of baggage.

Hepsey was already at the door. "Why, Miss Hathaway!" she cried, in astonishment.

"'T ain't Miss Hathaway," rejoined the visitor, with some asperity, "it's Mrs. Ball, and this is my husband. Niece Ruth, I presume," she added, as Miss Thorne appeared. "Ruth, let me introduce you to your Uncle James."

The bride was of medium height and rather angular. Her eyes were small, dark, and so piercingly brilliant that they suggested jet beads. Her skin was dark and her lips had been habitually compressed into a straight line. None the less, it was the face that Ruth had seen in the ambrotype at Miss Ainslie's, with the additional hardness that comes to those who grow old without love. Her bearing was that of a brisk, active woman, accustomed all her life to obedience and respect.

Mr. Ball was two or three inches shorter than his wife, and had a white beard, irregularly streaked with brown. He was baldheaded in front, had scant, reddish hair in the back, and his faded blue eyes were tearful. He had very small feet and the unmistakable gait of a sailor. Though there was no immediate resemblance, Ruth was sure that he was the man whose picture was in Aunt Jane's treasure chest in the attic. The daredevil look was gone, however, and he was merely a quiet, inoffensive old gentleman, for whom life had been none too easy.

"Welcome to your new home, James," said his wife, in a crisp, businesslike tone, which but partially concealed a latent tenderness. He smiled, but made no reply.

Hepsey still stood in the parlour, in wide mouthed astonishment, and it was Ruth's good fortune to see the glance which Mrs. Ball cast upon her offending maid. There was no change of expression except in the eyes, but Hepsey instantly understood that she was out of her place, and retreated to the kitchen with a flush upon her cheeks, which was altogether foreign to Ruth's experience.

"You can set here, James," resumed Mrs. Ball, "until I have taken off my things."

The cherries on her black straw bonnet were shaking on their stems in a way which fascinated Ruth. "I'll take my things out of the south room, Aunty," she hastened to say.

"You won't, neither," was the unexpected answer; "that's the spare room, and, while you stay, you'll stay there."

Ruth was wondering what to say to her new uncle and sat in awkward silence as Aunt Jane ascended the stairs. Her step sounded lightly overhead and Mr. Ball twirled his thumbs absently. "You—you've come a long way, haven't you?" she asked.

"Yes'm, a long way." Then, seemingly for the first time, he looked at her, and a benevolent expression came upon his face. "You've got awful pretty hair, Niece Ruth," he observed, admiringly; "now Mis' Ball, she wears a false front."

The lady of the house returned at this juncture, with the false front a little askew. "I was just a-sayin'," Mr. Ball continued, "that our niece is a real pleasant lookin' woman."

"She's your niece by marriage," his wife replied, "but she ain't no real relative."

"Niece by merriage is relative enough," said Mr.Ball, "and I say she's a pleasant lookin' woman, ain't she, now?"

"She'll do, I reckon. She resembles her Ma." Aunt Jane looked at Ruth, as if pitying the sister who had blindly followed the leadings of her heart and had died unforgiven.

"Why didn't you let me know you were coming, Aunt Jane?" asked Ruth. "I've been looking for a letter every day and I understood you weren't coming back until October."

"I trust I am not unwelcome in my own house," was the somewhat frigid response.

"No indeed, Aunty—I hope you've had a pleasant time."

"We've had a beautiful time, ain't we, James? We've been on our honeymoon."

"Yes'm, we hev been on our honeymoon, travellin' over strange lands an' furrin wastes of waters. Mis' Ball was terrible sea sick comin' here."

"In a way," said Aunt Jane, "we ain't completely married. We was married by a heathen priest in a heathen country and it ain't rightfully bindin', but we thought it would do until we could get back here and be married by a minister of the gospel, didn't we, James?"

"It has held," he said, without emotion, "but I reckon we will hev to be merried proper."

"Likewise I have my weddin' dress," Aunt Jane went on, "what ain't never been worn. It's a beautiful dress—trimmed with pearl trimmin'"—here Ruth felt the pangs of a guilty conscience—"and I lay out to be married in it, quite private, with you and Hepsey for witnesses."

"Why, it's quite a romance, isn't it, Aunty?"

"'T is in a way," interjected Mr. Ball, "and in another way, 't ain't."

"Yes, Ruth," Aunt Jane continued, ignoring the interruption, "'t is a romance—a real romance," she repeated, with all the hard lines in her face softened. "We was engaged over thirty-five year. James went to sea to make a fortin', so he could give me every luxury. It's all writ out in a letter I've got upstairs. They's beautiful letters, Ruth, and it's come to me, as I've been settin' here, that you might make a book out'n these letters of James's. You write, don't you?"

"Why, yes, Aunty, I write for the papers but I've never done a book."

"Well, you'll never write a book no earlier, and here's all the material, as you say, jest a-waitin' for you to copy it. I guess there's over a hundred letters."

"But, Aunty," objected Ruth, struggling with inward emotion, "I couldn't sign my name to it, you know, unless I had written the letters."

"Why not?"

"Because it wouldn't be honest," she answered, clutching at the straw, "the person who wrote the letters would be entitled to the credit—and the money," she added hopefully.

"Why, yes, that's right. Do you hear James? It'll have to be your book, 'The Love Letters of a Sailor,' by James, and dedicated in the front 'to my dearly beloved wife, Jane Ball, as was Jane Hathaway.' It'll be beautiful, won't it, James?"

"Yes'm, I hev no doubt but what it will."

"Do you remember, James, how you borrered a chisel from the tombstone man over to the Ridge, and cut our names into endurin' granite?"

"I'd forgot that—how come you to remember it?"

"On account of your havin' lost the chisel and the tombstone man a-worryin' me about it to this day. I'll take you to the place. There's climbin' but it won't hurt us none, though we ain't as young as we might be. You says to me, you says: 'Jane, darlin', as long as them letters stays cut into the everlastin' rock, just so long I'll love you,' you says, and they's there still."

"Well, I'm here, too, ain't I?" replied Mr. Ball, seeming to detect a covert reproach. "I was allers a great hand fer cuttin'."

"There'll have to be a piece writ in the end, Ruth, explainin' the happy endin' of the romance. If you can't do it justice, James and me can help—James was allers a master hand at writin'. It'll have to tell how through the long years he has toiled, hopin' against hope, and for over thirty years not darin' to write a line to the object of his affections, not feelin' worthy, as you may say, and how after her waitin' faithfully at home and turnin' away dozens of lovers what pleaded violent-like, she finally went travellin' in furrin parts and come upon her old lover a-keepin' a store in a heathen land, a-strugglin' to retrieve disaster after disaster at sea, and constantly withstandin' the blandishments of heathen women as endeavoured to wean him from his faith, and how, though very humble and scarcely darin to speak, he learned that she was willin' and they come a sailin' home together and lived happily ever afterward. Ain't that as it was, James?"

"Yes'm, except that there wa'n't no particular disaster at sea and them heathen women didn't exert no blandishments. They was jest pleasant to an old feller, bless their little hearts."

By some subtle mental process, Mr. Ball became aware that he had made a mistake. "You ain't changed nothin' here, Jane," he continued, hurriedly, "there's the haircloth sofy that we used to set on Sunday evenins' after meetin', and the hair wreath with the red rose in it made out of my hair and the white rose made out of your grandmother's hair on your father's side, and the yeller lily made out of the hair of your Uncle Jed's youngest boy. I disremember the rest, but time was when I could say'm all. I never see your beat for makin' hair wreaths, Jane. There ain't nothin' gone but the melodeon that used to set by the mantel. What's come of the melodeon?"

"The melodeon is set away in the attic. The mice et out the inside."

"Didn't you hev no cat?"

"There ain't no cat, James, that could get into a melodeon through a mouse hole, more especially the big maltese you gave me. I kept that cat, James, as you may say, all these weary years. When there was kittens, I kept the one that looked most like old Malty, but of late years, the cats has all been different, and the one I buried jest afore I sailed away was yeller and white with black and brown spots—a kinder tortoise shell—that didn't look nothin' like Malty. You'd never have knowed they belonged to the same family, but I was sorry when she died, on account of her bein' the last cat."

Hepsey, half frightened, put her head into the room. "Dinner's ready," she shouted, hurriedly shutting the door.

"Give me your arm, James," said Mrs. Ball, and Ruth followed them into the dining-room.

The retired sailor ate heartily, casting occasional admiring glances at Ruth and Hepsey. It was the innocent approval which age bestows upon youth. "These be the finest biscuit," he said, "that I've had for many a day. I reckon you made 'em, didn't you, young woman?"

"Yes, sir," replied Hepsey, twisting her apron.

The bride was touched in a vulnerable spot.

"Hepsey," she said, decisively, "when your week is up, you will no longer be in my service. I am a-goin'to make a change."

Mr. Ball's knife dropped with a sharp clatter. "Why, Mis' Ball," he said, reproachfully, "who air you goin' to hev to do your work?"

"Don't let that trouble you, James," she answered, serenely, "the washin' can be put out to the Widder Pendleton, her as was Elmiry Peavey, and the rest ain't no particular trouble."

"Aunty," said Ruth, "now that you've come home and everything is going on nicely, I think I'd better go back to the city. You see, if I stay here, I'll be interrupting the honeymoon."

"No, no, Niece Ruth!" exclaimed Mr. Ball, "you ain't interruptin' no honeymoon. It's a great pleasure to your aunt and me to hev you here—we likes pretty young things around us, and as long as we hev a home, you're welcome to stay in it; ain't she Jane?"

"She has sense enough to see, James, that she is interruptin' the honeymoon," replied Aunt Jane, somewhat harshly. "On account of her mother havin' been a Hathaway before marriage, she knows things. Not but what you can come some other time, Ruth," she added, with belated hospitality.

"Thank you, Aunty, I will. I'll stay just a day or two longer, if you don't mind—just until Mr. Winfield comes back. I don't know just where to write to him."

"Mr.—who?" demanded Aunt Jane, looking at her narrowly.

"Mr. Carl Winfield," said Ruth, crimsoning—"the man I am going to marry." The piercing eyes were still fixed upon her.

"Now about the letters, Aunty," she went on, in confusion, "you could help Uncle James with the book much better than I could. Of course it would have to be done under your supervision."

Mrs. Ball scrutinized her niece long and carefully. "You appear to be tellin' the truth," she said. "Who would best print it?"

"I think it would be better for you to handle it yourself, Aunty, and then you and Uncle James would have all the profits. If you let some one else publish it and sell it, you'd have only ten per cent, and even then, you might have to pay part of the expenses."

"How much does it cost to print a book?"

"That depends on the book. Of course it costs more to print a large one than a small one."

"That needn't make no difference," said Aunt Jane, after long deliberation. "James has two hundred dollars sewed up on the inside of the belt he insists on wearin', instead of Christian suspenders, ain't you, James?"

"Yes'm, two hundred and four dollars in my belt and seventy-six cents in my pocket."

"It's from his store," Mrs. Ball explained. "He sold it to a relative of one of them heathen women."

"It was worth more'n three hundred," he said regretfully.

"Now, James, you know a small store like that ain't worth no three hundred dollars. I wouldn't have let you took three hundred, 'cause it wouldn't be honest."

The arrival of a small and battered trunk created a welcome diversion. "Where's your trunk, Uncle James?" asked Ruth.

"I ain't a needin' of no trunk," he answered, "what clothes I've got is on me, and that there valise has more of my things in it. When my clothes wears out, I put on new ones and leave the others for some pore creeter what may need 'em worse'n me."

Aunt Jane followed Joe upstairs, issuing caution and direction at every step. "You can set outside now, Joe Pendleton," she said, "and see that them hosses don't run away, and as soon as I get some of my things hung up so's they won't wrinkle no more, I'll come out and pay you."

Joe obeyed, casting longing eyes at a bit of blue gingham that was fluttering among the currant bushes in the garden. Mr. Ball, longing for conversation with his kind, went out to the gate and stood looking up at him, blinking in the bright sunlight. "Young feller," he said, "I reckon that starboard hoss is my old mare. Where'd you get it?"

"Over to the Ridge," answered Joe, "of a feller named Johnson."

"Jest so—I reckon 't was his father I give Nellie to when I went away. She was a frisky filly then—she don't look nothin' like that now."

"Mamie" turned, as if her former master's voice had stirred some old memory. "She's got the evil eye," Mr. Ball continued. "You wanter be keerful."

"She's all right, I guess," Joe replied.

"Young feller," said Mr. Ball earnestly, "do you chew terbacker?"

"Yep, but I ain't got no more. I'm on the last hunk."

Mr. Ball stroked his stained beard. "I useter," he said, reminiscently, "afore I was merried."

Joe whistled idly, still watching for Hepsey.

"Young feller," said Mr. Ball, again, "there's a great deal of merryin' and givin' in merriage in this here settlement, ain't there?"

"Not so much as there might be."

"Say, was your mother's name Elmiry Peavey?"

"Yes sir," Joe answered, much surprised.

"Then you be keerful," cautioned Mr. Ball. "Your hoss has got the evil eye and your father, as might hev been, allers had a weak eye fer women." Joe's face was a picture of blank astonishment. "I was engaged to both of 'em," Mr. Ball explained, "each one a-keepin' of it secret, and she—" here he pointed his thumb suggestively toward the house—"she's got me."

"I'm going to be married myself," volunteered Joe, proudly.

"Merriage is a fleetin' show—I wouldn't, if I was in your place. Merriage is a drag on a man's ambitions. I set out to own a schooner, but I can't never do it now, on account of bein' merried. I had a good start towards it—I had a little store all to myself, what was worth three or four hundred dollars, in a sunny country where the women folks had soft voices and pretty ankles and wasn't above passin' jokes with an old feller to cheer 'im on 'is lonely way."

Mrs. Ball appeared at the upper window. "James," she called, "you'd better come in and get your hat. Your bald spot will get all sunburned."

"I guess I won't wait no longer, Miss Hathaway," Joe shouted, and, suiting the action to the word, turned around and started down hill. Mr. Ball, half way up the gravelled walk, turned back to smile at Joe with feeble jocularity.

Hearing the familiar voice, Hepsey hastened to the front of the house, and was about to retreat, when Mr. Ball stopped her.

"Pore little darlin'," he said, kindly, noting her tear stained face. "Don't go—wait a minute." He fumbled at his belt and at last extracted a crisp, new ten dollar bill. "Here, take that and buy you a ribbon or sunthin' to remember your lovin' Uncle James by."

Hepsey's face brightened, and she hastily concealed the bill in her dress. "I ain't your niece," she said, hesitatingly, "it's Miss Thorne."

"That don't make no difference," rejoined Mr. Ball, generously, "I'm willin' you should be my niece too. All pretty young things is my nieces and I loves 'em all. Won't you give your pore old uncle a kiss to remember you by?"

Ruth, who had heard the last words, came down to the gravelled walk. "Aunt Jane is coming," she announced, and Hepsey fled.

When the lady of the house appeared, Uncle James was sitting at one end of the piazza and Ruth at the other, exchanging decorous commonplaces.



XIII. Plans

Hepsey had been gone an hour before Mrs. Ball realised that she had sent away one of the witnesses of her approaching wedding. "It don't matter," she said to Ruth, "I guess there's others to be had. I've got the dress and the man and one of 'em and I have faith that the other things will come."

Nevertheless, the problem assumed undue proportions. After long study, she decided upon the minister's wife. "If 'twa'nt that the numskulls round here couldn't understand two weddin's," she said, "I'd have it in the church, as me and James first planned."

Preparations for the ceremony went forward with Aunt Jane's customary decision and briskness. She made a wedding cake, assisted by Mr. Ball, and gathered all the flowers in the garden. There was something pathetic about her pleasure; it was as though a wedding had been laid away in lavender, not to see the light for more than thirty years.

Ruth was to assist in dressing the bride and then go after the minister and his wife, who, by Aunt Jane's decree, were to have no previous warning. "'T ain't necessary to tell 'em beforehand, not as I see," said Mrs. Ball. "You must ask fust if they're both to home, and if only one of 'em is there, you'll have to find somebody else. If the minister's to home and his wife ain't gaddin', he'll get them four dollars in James's belt, leavin' an even two hundred, or do you think two dollars would be enough for a plain marriage?"

"I'd leave that to Uncle James, Aunty."

"I reckon you're right, Ruth—you've got the Hathaway sense."

The old wedding gown was brought down from the attic and taken out of its winding sheet. It had been carefully folded, but every crease showed plainly and parts of it had changed in colour. Aunt Jane put on her best "foretop," which was entirely dark, with no softening grey hair, and was reserved for occasions of high state. A long brown curl, which was hers by right of purchase, was pinned to the hard, uncompromising twist at the back of her neck.

Ruth helped her into the gown and, as it slipped over her head, she inquired, from the depths of it: "Is the front door locked?"

"Yes, Aunty, and the back door too."

"Did you bring up the keys as I told you to?"

"Yes, Aunty, here they are. Why?"

There was a pause, then Mrs. Ball said solemnly: "I've read a great deal about bridegrooms havin' wanderin' fits immediately before weddin's. Does my dress hike up in the back, Ruth?"

It was a little shorter in the back than in the front and cleared the floor on all sides, since she had grown a little after it was made, but Ruth assured her that everything was all right. When they went downstairs together, Mr. Ball was sitting in the parlour, plainly nervous.

"Now Ruth," said Aunt Jane, "you can go after the minister. My first choice is Methodis', after that Baptis' and then Presbyterian. I will entertain James durin' your absence."

Ruth was longing for fresh air and gladly undertook the delicate mission. Before she was half way down the hill, she met Winfield, who had come on the afternoon train.

"You're just in time to see a wedding," she said, when the first raptures had subsided.

"Whose wedding, sweetheart? Ours?"

"Far from it," answered Ruth, laughing. "Come with me and I'll explain."

She gave him a vivid description of the events that had transpired during his absence, and had invited him to the wedding before it occurred to her that Aunt Jane might not be pleased. "I may be obliged to recall my invitation," she said seriously, "I'll have to ask Aunty about it. She may not want you."

"That doesn't make any difference," announced Winfield, in high spirits, "I'm agoin' to the wedding and I'm a-goin' to kiss the bride, if you'll let me."

Ruth smothered a laugh. "You may, if you want to, and I won't be jealous. Isn't that sweet of me?"

"You're always sweet, dear. Is this the abode of the parson?"

The Methodist minister was at home, but his wife was not, and Ruth determined to take Winfield in her place. The clergyman said that he would come immediately, and, as the lovers loitered up the hill, they arrived at the same time.