"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."