Chapter IV: A Guest (1)

As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first the country brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously, but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's a fortnight before she bitterly regretted the step she had taken.

Still there was no going back, for she had given her word, and must stay there until October. The months before her stretched out into a dreary waste. She thought of Miss Ainslie gratefully, as a redeeming feature, but she knew that it was impossible to spend all of her time in the house--it the foot of the hill.

Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet more than once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock, before Hepsey was stiring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walk through the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and each day was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful, moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yet knowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there.

She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepsey stalked in, unannounced, and gave her a card.

“Mr. Carl Winfield!” Ruth repeated aloud. “Some one to see me, Hepsey?” she asked, in astonishment.

“Yes'm. He's a-waitin' on the piazzer.”

“Didn't you ask him to come in?”

“No'm. Miss Hathaway, she don't want no strangers in her house.”

“Go down immediately,” commanded Ruth, sternly, “ask him into the parlour, and say that Miss Thorne will be down in a few moments.”

“Yes'm.”

Hepsey shuffled downstairs with comfortable leisure, opened the door with aggravating slowness, then said, in a harsh tone that reached the upper rooms distinctly: “Miss Thorne, she says that you can come in and set in the parlour till she comes down.”

“Thank you,” responded a masculine voice, in quiet amusement; “Miss Thorne is kind--and generous.”

Ruth's cheeks flushed hotly. “I don't know whether Miss Thorne will go down or not,” she said to herself. “It's probably a book-agent.”

She rocked pensively for a minute or two, wondering what would happen if she did not go down. There was no sound from the parlour save a subdued clearing of the throat. “He's getting ready to speak his piece,” she thought, “and he might as well do it now as to wait for me.”

Though she loathed Mr. Carl Winfield and his errand, whatever it might prove to be, she stopped before her mirror long enough to give a pat or two to her rebellious hair. On the way down she determined to be dignified, icy, and crushing.

A tall young fellow with a pleasant face rose to greet her as she entered the room. “Miss Thorne?” he inquired.

“Yes--please sit down. I am very sorry that my maid should have been so inhospitable.” It was not what she had meant to say.

“Oh, that's all right,” he replied, easily; “I quite enjoyed it. I must ask your pardon for coming to you in this abrupt way, but Carlton gave me a letter to you, and I've lost it.” Carlton was the managing editor, and vague expectations of a summons to the office came into Ruth's mind.

“I'm on The Herald,” he went on; “that is, I was, until my eyes gave out, and then they didn't want me any more. Newspapers can't use anybody out of repair,” he added, grimly.

“I know,” Ruth answered, nodding.

“Of course the office isn't a sanitarium, though they need that kind of an annex; nor yet a literary kindergarten, which I've known it to be taken for, but--well, I won't tell you my troubles. The oculist said I must go to the country for six months, stay outdoors, and neither read nor write. I went to see Carlton, and he promised me a berth in the Fall--they're going to have a morning edition, too, you know.”

Miss Thorne did not know, but she was much interested.

“Carlton advised me to come up here,” resumed Winfield. “He said you were here, and that you were going back in the Fall. I'm sorry I've lost his letter.”

“What was in it?” inquired Ruth, with a touch of sarcasm. “You read it, didn't you?”

“Of course I read it--that is, I tried to. The thing looked like a prescription, but, as nearly as I could make it out, it was principally a description of the desolation in the office since you left it. At the end there was a line or two commending me to your tender mercies, and here I am.”

“Commending yourself.”

“Now what in the dickens have I done?” thought Winfield. “That's it exactly, Miss Thorne. I've lost my reference, and I'm doing my best to create a good impression without it. I thought that as long as we were going to be on the same paper, and were both exiles--”

He paused, and she finished the sentence for him: “that you'd come to see me. How long have you been in town?”

“'In town' is good,” he said. “I arrived in this desolate, God-forsaken spot just ten days ago. Until now I've hunted and fished every day, but I didn't get anything but a cold. It was very good, of its kind--I couldn't speak above a whisper for three days.”

She had already recognised him as the young man she saw standing in the road the day she went to Miss Ainslie's, and mentally asked his pardon for thinking he was a book-agent. He might become a pleasant acquaintance, for he was tall, clean shaven, and well built. His hands were white and shapely and he was well groomed, though not in the least foppish. The troublesome eyes were dark brown, sheltered by a pair of tinted glasses. His face was very expressive, responding readily to every change of mood.

They talked “shop” for a time, discovering many mutual friends, and Ruth liked him. He spoke easily, though hurriedly, and appeared to be somewhat cynical, but she rightly attributed it to restlessness like her own.

“What are you going to do on The Tribune?” she asked.

“Anything,” he answered, with an indefinable shrug. “'Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.' What are you going to do?”

“The same,” replied Ruth. “'Society,' 'Mother's Corner,' 'Under the Evening Lamp,' and 'In the Kitchen with Aunt Jenny.'”

He laughed infectiously. “I wish Carlton could hear you say that.”

“I don't,” returned Ruth, colouring faintly.

“Why; are you afraid of him?”

“Certainly I am. If he speaks to me, I'm instantly stiff with terror.”

“Oh, he isn't so bad,” said Winfield, reassuringly, “He's naturally abrupt, that's all; and I'll venture he doesn't suspect that he has any influence over you. I'd never fancy that you were afraid of anybody or anything on earth.”

“I'm not afraid of anything else,” she answered, “except burglars and green worms.”

“Carlton would enjoy the classification--really, Miss Thorne, somebody should tell him, don't you think? So much innocent pleasure doesn't often come into the day of a busy man.”

For a moment Ruth was angry, and then, all at once, she knew Winfield as if he had always been her friend. Conventionality, years, and the veneer of society were lightly laid upon one who would always be a boy. Some men are old at twenty, but Winfield would be young at seventy.

“You can tell him if you want to,” Ruth rejoined, calmly. “He'll be so pleased that he'll double your salary on the spot.”

“And you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with fun.

“I'll be pensioned, of course.”

“You're all right,” he returned, “but I guess I won't tell him. Riches lead to temptation, and if I'm going to be on The Tribune I'd hate to have you pensioned.”

Hepsey appeared to have a great deal of employment in the dining-room, and was very quiet about it, with long pauses between her leisurely movements. Winfield did not seem to notice it, but it jarred upon Ruth, and she was relieved when he said he must go.

“You'll come again, won't you?” she asked.

“I will, indeed.”

She stood at the window, unconsciously watching him as he went down the hill with a long, free stride. She liked the strength in his broad shoulders, his well modulated voice, and his clear, honest eyes; but after all he was nothing but a boy.

“Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, at her elbow, “is that your beau?” It was not impertinence, but sheer friendly interest which could not be mistaken for anything else.

“No,” she answered; “of course not.”

“He's real nice-lookin', ain't he?

“Yes.”

“Have you got your eye on anybody else?”

“No.”

“Then, Miss Thorne, I don't know's you could do better.”

“Perhaps not.” She was thinking, and spoke mechanically. From where she stood she could still see him walking rapidly down the hill.

“Ain't you never seen him before?”

Miss Thorne turned. “Hepsey,” she said, coldly, “please go into the kitchen and attend to your work. And the next time I have company, please stay in the kitchen--not in the dining-room.”

“Yes'm,” replied Hepsey, meekly, hastening to obey.

She was not subtle, but she understood that in some way she had offended Miss Thorne, and racked her brain vainly. She had said nothing that she would not have said to Miss Hathaway, and had intended nothing but friendliness. As for her being in the dining-room--why, very often, when Miss Hathaway had company, she was called in to give her version of some bit of village gossip. Miss Hathaway scolded her when she was displeased, but never before had any one spoken to Hepsey in a measured, icy tone that was at once lady-like and commanding. Tears came into her eyes, for she was sensitive, after all.

A step sounded overhead, and Hepsey regained her self-possession. She had heard nearly all of the conversation and could have told Miss Thorne a great deal about the young man. For instance, he had not said that he was boarding at Joe's, across the road from Miss Ainslie's, and that he intended to stay all Summer. She could have told her of an uncertain temper, peculiar tastes, and of a silver shaving-cup which Joe had promised her a glimpse of before the visitor went back to the city; but she decided to let Miss Thorne go on in her blind ignorance.

Ruth, meanwhile, was meditating, with an aggravated restlessness. The momentary glimpse of the outer world had stung her into a sense of her isolation, which she realised even more keenly than before. It was because of this, she told herself, that she hoped Winfield liked her, for it was not her wont to care about such trifles. He thought of her, idly, as a nice girl, who was rather pretty when she was interested in anything; but, with a woman's insight, influenced insensibly by Hepsey's comment, Ruth scented possibilities.

She wanted him to like her, to stay in that miserable village as long as she did, and keep her mind from stagnation--her thought went no further than that. In October, when they went back, she would thank Carlton, prettily, for sending her a friend--provided they did not quarrel. She could see long days of intimate companionship, of that exalted kind which is, possible only when man and woman meet on a high plane. “We're both too old for nonsense,” she thought; and then a sudden fear struck her, that Winfield might be several years younger than she was.

Immediately she despised herself. “I don't care if he is,” she thought, with her cheeks crimson; “it's nothing to me. He's a nice boy, and I want to be amused.”

She went to her dresser, took out the large top drawer, and dumped its contents on the bed. It was a desperate measure, for Ruth hated to put things in order. The newspaper which had lain in the bottom of it had fallen out also, and she shook it so violently that she tore it.

Then ribbons, handkerchiefs, stocks, gloves, and collars were unceremoniously hustled back into the drawer, for Miss Thorne was at odds with herself and the world. She was angry with Hepsey, she hated Winfield, and despised herself. She picked up a scrap of paper which lay on a glove, and caught a glimpse of unfamiliar penmanship.

It was apparently the end of a letter, and the rest of it was gone. “At Gibraltar for some time,” she read, “keeping a shop, but will probably be found now in some small town on the coast of Italy. Very truly yours.” The signature had been torn off.

“Why, that isn't mine,” she thought. “It must be something of Aunt Jane's.” Another bit of paper lay near it, and, unthinkingly, she read a letter which was not meant for her.

“I thank you from my heart,” it began, “for understanding me. I could not put it into words, but I believe you know. Perhaps you think it is useless--that it is too late; but if it was, I would know. You have been very kind, and I thank you.”

There was neither date, address, nor signature. The message stood alone, as absolutely as some far-off star whose light could not be seen from the earth. Some one understood it--two understood it--the writer and Aunt Jane.

Ruth put it back under the paper, with the scrap of the other letter, and closed the drawer with a bang. “I hope,” she said to herself, “that while I stay here I'll be mercifully preserved from finding things that are none of my business.” Then, as in a lightning flash, for an instant she saw clearly.

Fate plays us many tricks and assumes strange forms, but Ruth knew that some day, on that New England hill, she would come face to face with a destiny that had been ordained from the beginning. Something waited for her there--some great change. She trembled at the thought, but was not afraid.

V. The Rumours of the Valley

“Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, from the doorway of Ruth's room, “that feller's here again.” There was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and Ruth herself was somewhat surprised, for she had not expected another call so soon.

“He's a-settin' 'n in the parlour,” continued Hepsey, “when he ain't a-walkin' around it and wearin' out the carpet. I didn't come up when he first come, on account of my pie crust bein' all ready to put in the oven.”

“How long has he been here?” asked Ruth, dabbing a bit of powder on her nose and selecting a fresh collar.

“Oh, p'raps half an hour.”

“That isn't right, Hepsey; when anyone comes you must tell me immediately. Never mind the pie crust next time.” Ruth endeavoured to speak kindly, but she was irritated at the necessity of making another apology.

When she went down, Winfield dismissed her excuses with a comprehensive wave of the hand. “I always have to wait when I go to call on a girl,” he said; “it's one of the most charming vagaries of the ever-feminine. I used to think that perhaps I wasn't popular, but every fellow I know has the same experience.”

“I'm an exception,” explained Ruth; “I never keep any one waiting. Of my own volition, that is,” she added, hastily, feeling his unspoken comment.

“I came up this afternoon to ask a favour of you,” he began. “Won't you go for a walk with me? It's wrong to stay indoors on a day like this.”

“Wait till I get my hat,” said Ruth, rising.

“Fifteen minutes is the limit,” he called to her, as she went upstairs.

She was back again almost immediately, and Hepsey watched them in wide-mouthed astonishment as they went down hill together, for it was not in her code of manners that “walking out” should begin so soon. When they approached Miss Ainslie's he pointed out the brown house across from it, on the other side of the hill.

“Yonder palatial mansion is my present lodging,” he volunteered, “and I am a helpless fly in the web of the 'Widder' Pendleton.”

“Pendleton,” repeated Ruth; “why, that's Joe's name.”

“It is,” returned Winfield, concisely. “He sits opposite me at the table, and wonders at my use of a fork. It is considered merely a spear for bread and meat at the 'Widder's.' I am observed closely at all times, and in some respects Joe admires me enough to attempt imitation, which, as you know, is the highest form of flattery. For instance, this morning he wore not only a collar and tie, but a scarf pin. It was a string tie, and I've never before seen a pin worn in one, but it's interesting.”

“It must be.”

“He has a sweetheart,” Winfield went on, “and I expect she'll be dazzled.”

“My Hepsey is his lady love,” Ruth explained.

“What? The haughty damsel who wouldn't let me in? Do tell!”

“You're imitating now,” laughed Ruth, “but I shouldn't call it flattery.”

For a moment, there was a chilly silence. Ruth did not look at him, but she bit her lip and then laughed, unwillingly. “'It's all true,” she said, “I plead guilty.”

“You see, I know all about you,” he went on. “You knit your brows in deep thought, do not hear when you are spoken to, even in a loud voice, and your mail consists almost entirely of bulky envelopes, of a legal nature, such as came to the 'Widder' Pendleton from the insurance people.”

“Returned manuscripts,” she interjected.

“Possibly--far be it from me to say they're not. Why, I've had 'em myself.”

“You don't mean it!” she exclaimed, ironically.

“You seek out, as if by instinct, the only crazy person in the village, and come home greatly perturbed. You ask queer questions of your humble serving-maid, assume a skirt which is shorter than the approved model, speaking from the village standpoint, and unhesitatingly appear on the public streets. You go to the attic at night and search the inmost recesses of many old trunks.”

“Yes,” sighed Ruth, “I've done all that.”

“At breakfast you refuse pie, and complain because the coffee is boiled. Did anybody ever hear of coffee that wasn't boiled? Is it eaten raw in the city? You call supper 'dinner,' and have been known to seek nourishment at nine o'clock at night, when all respectable people are sound asleep. In your trunk, you have vainly attempted to conceal a large metal object, the use of which is unknown.”

“Oh, my hapless chafing-dish!” groaned Ruth.

“Chafing-dish?” repeated Winfield, brightening visibly. “And I eating sole leather and fried potatoes? From this hour I am your slave--you can't lose me now!

“Go on,” she commanded.

“I can't--the flow of my eloquence is stopped by rapturous anticipation. Suffice it to say that the people of this enterprising city are well up in the ways of the wicked world, for the storekeeper takes The New York Weekly and the 'Widder' Pendleton subscribes for The Fireside Companion. The back numbers, which are not worn out, are the circulating library of the village. It's no use, Miss Thorne--you might stand on your hilltop and proclaim your innocence until you were hoarse, and it would be utterly without effect. Your status is definitely settled.”

“How about Aunt Jane?” she inquired. “Does my relationship count for naught?”

“Now you are rapidly approaching the centre of things,” replied the young man. “Miss Hathaway is one woman in a thousand, though somewhat eccentric. She is the venerated pillar of the community and a constant attendant it church, which it seems you are not. Also, if you are really her niece, where is the family resemblance? Why has she never spoken of you? Why have you never been here before? Why are her letters to you sealed with red wax, bought especially for the purpose? Why does she go away before you come? Lady Gwendolen Hetherington,” he demanded, with melodramatic fervour, “answer me these things if you can!”

“I'm tired,” she complained.

“Delicate compliment,” observed Winfield, apparently to himself. “Here's a log across our path, Miss Thorne; let's sit down.”

The budded maples arched over the narrow path, and a wild canary, singing in the sun, hopped from bough to bough. A robin's cheery chirp came from another tree, and the clear notes of a thrush, with a mottled breast, were answered by another in the gold-green aisles beyond.

“Oh,” he said, under his breath, “isn't this great!”

The exquisite peace of the forest was like that of another sphere. “Yes,” she answered, softly, “it is beautiful.”

“You're evading the original subject,” he suggested, a little later.

“I haven't had a chance to talk,” she explained. “You've done a monologue ever since we left the house, and I listened, as becomes inferior and subordinate woman. I have never seen my venerated kinswoman, and I don't see how she happened to think of me. Nevertheless, when she wrote, asking me to take charge of her house while she went to Europe, I gladly consented, sight unseen. When I came, she was gone. I do not deny the short skirt and heavy shoes, the criticism of boiled coffee, nor the disdain of breakfast pie. As far is I know, Aunt Jane is my only living relative.”

“That's good,” he said, cheerfully; “I'm shy even of an aunt. Why shouldn't the orphans console one another?”

“They should,” admitted Ruth; “and you are doing your share nobly.”

“Permit me to return the compliment. Honestly, Miss Thorne,” he continued, seriously, “you have no idea how much I appreciate your being here. When I first realised what it meant to be deprived of books and papers for six months at a stretch, it seemed as if I should go mad. Still, I suppose six months isn't as bad as forever, and I was given a choice. I don't want to bore you, but if you will let me come occasionally, I shall be very glad. I'm going to try to be patient, too, if you'll help me--patience isn't my long suit.”

“Indeed I will help you,” answered Ruth, impulsively; “I know how hard it must be.”

“I'm not begging for your sympathy, though I assure you it is welcome.” He polished the tinted glasses with a bit of chamois.. and his eyes filled with the mist of weakness before he put them on again. “So you've never seen your aunt,” he said.

“No--that pleasure is still in store for me.”

“They say down at the 'Widder's' that she's a woman with a romance.”

“Tell me about it!” exclaimed Ruth, eagerly.

“Little girls mustn't ask questions,” he remarked, patronisingly, and in his most irritating manner. “Besides, I don't know. If the 'Widder' knows, she won't tell, so it's fair to suppose she doesn't. Your relation does queer things in the attic, and every Spring, she has an annual weep. I suppose it's the house cleaning, for the rest of the year she's dry-eyed and calm.”

“I weep very frequently,” commented Ruth.

“'Tears, idle tears--I wonder what they mean.'”

“They don't mean much, in the case of a woman.”

“I've never seen many of'em,” returned Winfield, “and I don't want to. Even stage tears go against the grain with me. I know that the lady who sobs behind the footlights is well paid for it, but all the same, it gives me the creeps.”

“It's nothing serious--really it isn't,” she explained. “It's merely a safety valve. If women couldn't cry, they'd explode.”

“I always supposed tears were signs of sorrow,” he said.

“Far from it,” laughed Ruth. “When I get very angry, I cry, and then I got angrier because I'm crying and cry harder.”

“That opens up a fearful possibility. What would happen if you kept getting angrier because you were crying and crying harder because you got angrier?”

“I have no idea,” she answered, with her dark eyes fixed upon him, “but it's a promising field for investigation.”'

“I don't want to see the experiment.”

“Don't worry,” said Ruth, laconically, “you won't.”

There was a long silence, and Winfield began to draw designs on the bare earth with a twig. “Tell me about the lady who is considered crazy,” he suggested.

Ruth briefly described Miss Ainslie, dwelling lovingly upon her beauty and charm. He listened indifferently at first, but when she told him of the rugs, the real lace which edged the curtains, and the Cloisonne vase, he became much interested.

“Take me to see her some day, won't you,” he asked, carelessly.

Ruth's eyes met his squarely. “'T isn't a 'story,'” she said, resentfully, forgetting her own temptation.

The dull colour flooded his face. “You forget, Miss Thorne, that I am forbidden to read or write.”

“For six months only,” answered Ruth, sternly, “and there's always a place for a good Sunday special.”

He changed the subject, but there were frequent awkward pauses and the spontaniety was gone. She rose, adjusting her belt in the back, and announced that it was time for her to go home.

On their way up the hill, she tried to be gracious enough to atone for her rudeness, but, though he was politeness itself, there was a difference, and she felt as if she had lost something. Distance lay between them--a cold, immeasurable distance, yet she knew that she had done right.

He opened the gate for her, then turned to go. “Won't you come in?” she asked, conventionally.

“No, thank you--some other time, if I may. I've had a charming afternoon.” He smiled pleasantly, and was off down the hill.

When she remembered that it was a Winfield who had married Abigail Weatherby, she dismissed the matter as mere coincidence, and determined, at all costs, to shield Miss Ainslie. The vision of that gracious lady came to her, bringing with it a certain uplift of soul. Instantly, she was placed far above the petty concerns of earth, like one who walks upon the heights, untroubled, while restless surges thunder at his feet.

VI. The Garden

Miss Thorne wrote an apology to Winfield, and then tore it up, thereby gaining comparative peace of mind, for, with some natures, expression is the main thing, and direction is but secondary. She was not surprised because he did not come; on the contrary, she had rather expected to be left to her own devices for a time, but one afternoon she dressed with unusual care and sat in state in the parlour, vaguely expectant. If he intended to be friendly, it was certainly time for him to come again.

Hepsey, passing through the hall, noted the crisp white ribbon at her throat and the bow in her hair. “Are you expectin' company, Miss Thorne?” she asked, innocently.

“I am expecting no one,” answered Ruth, frigidly, “I am going out.”

Feeling obliged to make her word good, she took the path which led to Miss Ainslie's. As she entered the gate, she had a glimpse of Winfield, sitting by the front window of Mrs. Pendleton's brown house, in such a dejected attitude that she pitied him. She considered the virtuous emotion very praiseworthy, even though it was not deep enough for her to bestow a cheery nod upon the gloomy person across the way.

Miss Ainslie was unaffectedly glad to see her, and Ruth sank into an easy chair with something like content. The atmosphere of the place was insensibly soothing and she instantly felt a subtle change. Miss Ainslie, as always, wore a lavender gown, with real lace at the throat and wrists. Her white hair was waved softly and on the third finger of her left hand was a ring of Roman gold, set with an amethyst and two large pearls.

There was a beautiful serenity about her, evident in every line of her face and figure. Time had dealt gently with her, and except on her queenly head had left no trace of his passing. The delicate scent of the lavender floated from her gown and her laces, almost as if it were a part of her, and brought visions of an old-time garden, whose gentle mistress was ever tranquil and content. As she sat there, smiling, she might have been Peace grown old.

“Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, suddenly, “have you ever had any trouble?”

A shadow crossed her face, and then she answered, patiently, “Why, yes--I've had my share.”

“I don't mean to be personal,” Ruth explained, “I was just thinking.”

“I understand,” said the other, gently. Then, after a little, she spoke again:

“We all have trouble, deary--it's part of life; but I believe that we all share equally in the joy of the world. Allowing for temperament, I mean. Sorrows that would crush some are lightly borne by others, and some have the gift of finding great happiness in little things.

“Then, too, we never have any more than we can bear--nothing that has not been borne before, and bravely at that. There isn't a new sorrow in the world--they're all old ones--but we can all find new happiness if we look in the right way.”

The voice had a full music, instinct with tenderness, and gradually Ruth's troubled spirit was eased. “I don't know what's the matter with me,” she said, meditatively, “for I'm not morbid, and I don't have the blues very often, but almost ever since I've been at Aunt Jane's, I've been restless and disturbed. I know there's no reason for it, but I can't help it.”

“Don't you think that it's because you have nothing to do? You've always been so busy, and you aren't used to idleness.”

“Perhaps so. I miss my work, but at the same time, I haven't sense enough to do it.”

“Poor child, you're tired--too tired to rest.”

“Yes, I am tired,” answered Ruth, the tears of nervous weakness coming into her eyes.

“Come out into the garden.”

Miss Ainslie drew a fleecy shawl over her shoulders and led her guest outdoors. Though she kept pace with the world in many other ways, it was an old-fashioned garden, with a sun-dial and an arbour, and little paths, nicely kept, that led to the flower beds and circled around them. There were no flowers as yet, except in a bed of wild violets under a bay window, but tiny sprigs of green were everywhere eloquent with promise, and the lilacs were budded.

“That's a snowball bush over there,” said Miss Ainslie, “and all that corner of the garden will be full of roses in June. They're old-fashioned roses, that I expect you wouldn't care for-blush and cinnamon and sweet briar--but I love them all. That long row is half peonies and half bleeding-hearts, and I have a bed of columbines under a window on the other side of the house. The mignonette and forget-me-nots have a place to themselves, for I think they belong together--sweetness and memory.

“There's going to be lady-slippers over there,” Miss Ainslie went on, “and sweet william. The porch is always covered with morning-glories--I think they're beautiful and in that large bed I've planted poppies, snap-dragon, and marigolds. This round one is full of larkspur and bachelor's buttons. I have phlox and petunias, too--did you ever see a petunia seed?”

Ruth shook her head.

“It's the tiniest thing, smaller than a grain of sand. When I plant them, I always wonder how those great, feathery petunias are coming out of those little, baby seeds, but they come. Over there are things that won't blossom till late--asters, tiger-lilies and prince's feather. It's going to be a beautiful garden, deary. Down by the gate are my sweet herbs and simples--marjoram, sweet thyme, rosemary, and lavender. I love the lavender, don't you?”

“Yes, I do,” replied Ruth, “but I've never seen it growing.”

“It's a little bush, with lavender flowers that yield honey, and it's all sweet--flowers, leaves, and all. I expect you'll laugh at me, but I've planted sunflowers and four-o'clocks and foxglove.”

“I won't laugh---I think it's lovely. What do you like best, Miss Ainslie?”

“I love them all,” she said, with a smile on her lips and her deep, unfathomable eyes fixed upon Ruth, “but I think the lavender comes first. It's so sweet, and then it has associations--”

She paused, in confusion, and Ruth went on, quickly: “I think they all have associations, and that's why we love them. I can't bear red geraniums because a cross old woman I knew when I was a child had her yard full of them, and I shall always love the lavender,” she added, softly, “because it makes me think of you.”

Miss Ainslie's checks flushed and her eyes shone. “Now we'll go into the house,” she said, “and we'll have tea.”

“I shouldn't stay any longer,” murmured Ruth, following her, “I've been here so long now.”

“'T isn't long,” contradicted Miss Ainslie, sweetly, “it's been only a very few minutes.”

Every moment, the house and its owner took on new beauty and charm. Miss Ainslie spread a napkin of finest damask upon the little mahogany tea table, then brought in a silver teapot of quaint design, and two cups of Japanese china, dainty to the point of fragility.

“Why, Miss Ainslie,” exclaimed Ruth, in surprise, “where did you get Royal Kaga?”

Miss Ainslie was bending over the table, and the white hand that held the teapot trembled a little. “They were a present from--a friend,” she answered, in a low voice.

“They're beautiful,” said Ruth, hurriedly.

She had been to many an elaborate affair, which was down on the social calendar as a “tea,” sometimes as reporter and often as guest, but she had found no hostess like Miss Ainslie, no china so exquisitely fine, nor any tea like the clear, fragrant amber which was poured into her cup.

“It came from China,” said Miss Ainslie, feeling the unspoken question. “I had a whole chest of it, but it's almost all gone.”

Ruth was turning her cup and consulting the oracle. “Here's two people, a man and a woman, from a great distance, and, yes, here's money, too. What is there in yours?”

“Nothing, deary, and besides, it doesn't come true.”

When Ruth finally aroused herself to go home, the old restlessness, for the moment, was gone. “There's a charm about you,” she said, “for I feel as if I could sleep a whole week and never wake at all.”

“It's the tea,” smiled Miss Ainslie, “for I'm a very commonplace body.”

“You, commonplace?” repeated Ruth; “why, there's nobody like you!”

They stood at the door a few moments, talking aimlessly, but Ruth was watching Miss Ainslie's face, as the sunset light lay caressingly upon it. “I've had a lovely time,” she said, taking another step toward the gate.

“So have I--you'll come again, won't you?” The sweet voice was pleading now, and Ruth answered it in her inmost soul. Impulsively, she came back, threw her arms around Miss Ainslie's neck, and kissed her. “I love you,” she said, “don't you know I do?”

The quick tears filled Miss Ainslie's eyes and she smiled through the mist. “Thank you, deary,” she whispered, “it's a long time since any one has kissed me--a long time!”

Ruth turned back at the gate, to wave her hand, and even at that distance, saw that Miss Ainslie was very pale.

Winfield was waiting for her, just outside the hedge, but his presence jarred upon her strangely, and her salutation was not cordial.

“Is the lady a friend of yours?” he inquired, indifferently.

“She is,” returned Ruth; “I don't go to see my enemies--do you?”

“I don't know whether I do or not,” he said, looking at her significantly.

Her colour rose, but she replied, sharply: “For the sake of peace, let us assume that you do not.”

“Miss Thorne,” he began, as they climbed the hill, “I don't see why you don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper. You have to live with yourself all the time, you know, and, occasionally, it must be very difficult. A rag, now, wet in cold water, and tied around your neck--have you ever tried that? It's said to be very good.”

“I have one on now,” she answered, with apparent seriousness, “only you can't see it under my ribbon. It's getting dry and I think I'd better hurry home to wet it again, don't you?”

Winfield laughed joyously. “You'll do,” he said.

Before they were half up the hill, they were on good terms again. “I don't want to go home, do you?” he asked.

“Home? I have no home--I'm only a poor working girl.”

“Oh, what would this be with music! I can see it now! Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission, I will endeavour to give you a little song of my own composition, entitled: 'Why Has the Working Girl No Home!'”

“You haven't my permission, and you're a wretch.”

“I am,” he admitted, cheerfully, “moreover, I'm a worm in the dust.”

“I don't like worms.”

“Then you'll have to learn.”

Ruth resented his calm assumption of mastery. “You're dreadfully young,” she said; “do you think you'll ever grow up?”

“Huh!” returned Winfield, boyishly, “I'm most thirty.”

“Really? I shouldn't have thought you were of age.”

“Here's a side path, Miss Thorne,” he said, abruptly, “that seems to go down into the woods. Shall we explore? It won't be dark for an hour yet.”

They descended with some difficulty, since the way was not cleat, and came into the woods at a point not far from the log across the path. “We mustn't sit there any more,” he observed, “or we'll fight. That's where we were the other day, when you attempted to assassinate me.”

“I didn't!” exclaimed Ruth indignantly.

“That rag does seem to be pretty dry,” he said, apparently to himself. “Perhaps, when we get to the sad sea, we can wet it, and so insure comparative calm.”

She laughed, reluctantly. The path led around the hill and down from the highlands to a narrow ledge of beach that lay under the cliff. “Do you want to drown me?” she asked. “It looks very much as if you intended to, for this ledge is covered at high tide.”

“You wrong me, Miss Thorne; I have never drowned anything.”

His answer was lost upon her, for she stood on the beach, under the cliff, looking at the water. The shimmering turquoise blue was slowly changing to grey, and a single sea gull circled overhead.

He made two or three observations, to which Ruth paid no attention. “My Lady Disdain,” he said, with assumed anxiety, “don't you think we'd better go on? I don't know what time the tide comes in, and I never could look your aunt in the face if I had drowned her only relative.”

“Very well,” she replied carelessly, “let's go around the other way.”

They followed the beach until they came to the other side of the hill, but found no path leading back to civilisation, though the ascent could easily be made.

“People have been here before,” he said; “here are some initials cut into this stone. What are they? I can't see.”

Ruth stooped to look at the granite boulder he indicated. “J. H.,” she answered, “and J. B.”

“It's incomplete,” he objected; “there should be a heart with an arrow run through it.”

“You can fix it to suit yourself,” Ruth returned, coolly, “I don't think anybody will mind.” She did not hear his reply, for it suddenly dawned upon her that “J. H.” meant Jane Hathaway.

They stood there in the twilight for some little time, watching the changing colours on the horizon and then there was a faint glow on the water from the cliff above. Ruth went out far enough to see that Hepsey had placed the lamp in the attic window.

“It's time to go,” she said, “inasmuch as we have to go back the way we came.”

They crossed to the other side and went back through the woods. It was dusk, and they walked rapidly until they came to the log across the path.

“So your friend isn't crazy,” he said tentatively, as he tried to assist her over it.

“That depends,” she replied, drawing away from him; “you're indefinite.”

“Forgot to wet the rag, didn't we?” he asked. “I will gladly assume the implication, however, if I may be your friend.”

“Kind, I'm sure,” she answered, with distant politeness.

The path widened, and he walked by her side. “Have you noticed, Miss Thorne, that we have trouble every time we approach that seemingly innocent barrier? I think it would be better to keep away from it, don't you?”

“Perhaps.”

“What initials were those on the boulder? J. H. and--”

“J. B.”

“I thought so. 'J. B.' must have had a lot of spare time at his disposal, for his initials are cut into the 'Widder' Pendleton's gate post on the inner side, and into an apple tree in the back yard.”

“How interesting!”

“Did you know Joe and Hepsey were going out to-night?”

“No, I didn't--they're not my intimate friends.”

“I don't see how Joe expects to marry on the income derived from the village chariot.”

“Have they got that far?”

“I don't know,” replied Winfield, with the air of one imparting a confidence. “You see, though I have been in this peaceful village for some little time, I have not yet arrived at the fine distinction between 'walking out, 'settin' up,' and 'stiddy comp'ny.' I should infer that 'walking out' came first, for 'settin' up' must take a great deal more courage, but even 1, with my vast intellect, cannot at present understand 'stiddy comp'ny.'”

“Joe takes her out every Sunday in the carriage,” volunteered Ruth, when the silence became awkward.

“In the what?”

“Carriage--haven't you ridden in it?”

“I have ridden in them, but not in it. I walked to the 'Widder's,' but if it is the conveyance used by travellers, they are both 'walking out' and 'settin' up.'”

They paused at the gate. “Thank you for a pleasant afternoon,” said Winfield. “I don't have many of them.”

“You're welcome,” returned Ruth, conveying the impression of great distance.

Winfield sighed, then made a last desperate attempt. “Miss Thorne,” he said, pleadingly, “please don't be unkind to me. You have my reason in your hands. I can see myself now, sitting on the floor, at one end of the dangerous ward. They'll smear my fingers with molasses and give me half a dozen feathers to play with. You'll come to visit the asylum, sometime, when you're looking for a special, and at first, you won't recognise me. Then I'll say: 'Woman, behold your work,' and you'll be miserable all the rest of your life.”

She laughed heartily at the distressing picture, and the plaintive tone of his voice pierced her armour. “What's the matter with you?” she asked.

“I don't know--I suppose it's my eyes. I'm horribly restless and discontented, and it isn't my way.”

Then Ruth remembered her own restless weeks, which seemed so long ago, and her heart stirred with womanly sympathy. “I know,” she said, in a different tone, “I've felt the same way myself, almost ever since I've been here, until this very afternoon. You're tired and nervous, and you haven't anything to do, but you'll get over it.”

“I hope you're right. I've been getting Joe to read the papers to me, at a quarter a sitting, but his pronunciation is so unfamiliar that it's hard to get the drift, and the whole thing exasperated me so that I had to give it up.”

“Let me read the papers to you,” she said, impulsively, “I haven't seen one for a month.”

There was a long silence. “I don't want to impose upon you,” he answered--“no, you mustn't do it.”

Ruth saw a stubborn pride that shrank from the slightest dependence, a self-reliance that would not falter, but would steadfastly hold aloof, and she knew that in one thing, at least, they were kindred.

“Let me,” she cried, eagerly; “I'll give you my eyes for a little while!”

Winfield caught her hand and held it for a moment, fully understanding. Ruth's eyes looked up into his--deep, dark, dangerously appealing, and alight with generous desire.

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!”