Lavender and Old Lace

As Miss Ainslie became weaker, she clung to Carl, and was never

satisfied when he was out of her sight. When she was settled in bed for

the night, he went in to sit by her and hold her hand until she dropped

asleep. If she woke during the night she would call Ruth and ask where

he was.

"He'll come over in the morning, Miss Ainslie," Ruth always said; "you

know it's night now."

"Is it?" she would ask, drowsily. "I must go to sleep, then, deary, so

that I may be quite rested and refreshed when he comes."

Her room, in contrast to the rest of the house, was almost Puritan in

its simplicity. The bed and dresser were mahogany, plain, but highly

polished, and she had a mahogany rocker with a cushion of old blue

tapestry. There was a simple white cover on the bed and another on

the dresser, but the walls were dead white, unrelieved by pictures or

draperies. In the east window was a long, narrow footstool, and a prayer

book and hymnal lay on the window sill, where this maiden of half a

century, looking seaward, knelt to say her prayers.

One morning, when Ruth went in, she said: "I think I won't get up this

morning, dear; I am so very tired. If Carl should come over, will you

say that I should like to see him?"

She would see no one but Carl and Ruth, and Mrs. Ball was much offended

because her friend did not want her to come upstairs. "Don't be harsh

with her, Aunt Jane," pleaded Ruth, "you know people often have strange

fancies when they are ill. She sent her love to you, and asked me to say

that she thanked you, but you need not put the light in the attic window

any more."

Mrs. Ball gazed at her niece long and earnestly. "Be you tellin' me the

truth?" she asked.

"Why, of course, Aunty."

"Then Mary Ainslie has got sense from somewheres. There ain't never

been no need for that lamp to set in the winder; and when she gets more

sense, I reckon she'll be willin' to see her friends." With evident

relief upon her face, Mrs. Ball departed.

But Miss Ainslie seemed quite satisfied, and each day spoke more

lovingly to Ruth and Carl. He showed no signs of impatience, but spent

his days with her cheerfully. He read to her, held her hand, and told

her about the rug, the Marquise, and the Japanese lovers. At the end she

would always say, with a quiet tenderness: "and some one who loved me

brought it to me!"

"Yes, Miss Ainslie; some one who loved you. Everybody loves you; don't

you know that?"

"Do you?" she asked once, suddenly and yet shyly.

"Indeed I do, Miss Ainslie--I love you with all my heart."