"I seem to get more tired every minute," she thought. "I wonder if I've

got the rheumatism."

She scanned the horizon eagerly for the dilapidated conveyance which she

had once both feared and scorned. No sound could have been more welcome

than the rumble of those creaking wheels, nor any sight more pleasing

than the conflicting expressions in "Mamie's" single useful eye. She sat

there a long time, waiting for deliverance, but it did not come.

"I'll get an alpenstock," she said to herself, as she rose, wearily, and

tried to summon courage to start. Then the gate clicked softly and the

sweetest voice in the world said: "My dear, you are tired--won't you

come in?"

Turning, she saw Miss Ainslie, smiling graciously. In a moment she had

explained that she was Miss Hathaway's niece and that she would be very

glad to come in for a few moments.

"Yes," said the sweet voice again, "I know who you are. Your aunt told

me all about you and I trust we shall be friends."

Ruth followed her up the gravelled path to the house, and into the

parlour, where a wood fire blazed cheerily upon the hearth. "It is

so damp this time of year," she went on, "that I like to keep my fire

burning."

While they were talking, Ruth's eyes rested with pleasure upon her

hostess. She herself was tall, but Miss Ainslie towered above her. She

was a woman of poise and magnificent bearing, and she had the composure

which comes to some as a right and to others with long social training.

Her abundant hair was like spun silver--it was not merely white, but it

shone. Her skin was as fresh and fair as a girl's, and when she smiled,

one saw that her teeth were white and even; but the great charm of her

face was her eyes. They were violet, so deep in colour as to seem almost

black in certain lights, and behind them lay an indescribable something

which made Ruth love her instinctively. She might have been forty, or

seventy, but she was beautiful, with the beauty that never fades.

At intervals, not wishing to stare, Ruth glanced around the room. Having

once seen the woman, one could not fail to recognise her house, for

it suited her. The floors were hardwood, highly polished, and partly

covered with rare Oriental rugs. The walls were a soft, dark green,

bearing no disfiguring design, and the windows were draped with net,

edged with Duchesse lace. Miss Hathaway's curtains hung straight to the

floor, but Miss Ainslie's were tied back with white cord.

The furniture was colonial mahogany, unspoiled by varnish, and rubbed

until it shone.

"You have a beautiful home," said Ruth, during a pause.

"Yes," she replied, "I like it."




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