"I have left money enough for the expenses until I come back, in a

little box on the top shelf of the closet in the front room, under a

pile of blankets and comfortables. The key that unlocks it is hung on

a nail driven into the back of the old bureau in the attic. I believe

Hepsey is honest and reliable, but I don't believe in tempting folks.

"When I get anywhere where I can, I will write and send you my address,

and then you can tell me how things are going at home. The catnip is

hanging from the rafters in the attic, in case you should want some tea,

and the sassafras is in the little drawer in the bureau that's got the

key hanging behind it.

"If there's anything else you should want, I reckon Hepsey will know

where to find it. Hoping that this will find you enjoying the great

blessing of good health, I remain, "Your Affectionate Aunt, "JANE HATHAWAY.

"P. S. You have to keep a lamp burning every night in the east window of

the attic. Be careful that nothing catches afire."

The maid was waiting, in fear and trembling, for she did not know what

directions her eccentric mistress might have left.

"Everything is all right, Hepsey," said Miss Thorne, pleasantly, "and I

think you and I will get along nicely. Did Miss Hathaway tell you what

room I was to have?"

"No'm. She told me you was to make yourself at home. She said you could

sleep where you pleased."

"Very well, I will go up and see for myself. I would like my tea at six

o'clock." She still held the letter in her hand, greatly to the chagrin

of Hepsey, who was interested in everything and had counted upon a peep

at it. It was not Miss Hathaway's custom to guard her letters and she

was both surprised and disappointed.

As Ruth climbed the narrow stairway, the quiet, old-fashioned house

brought balm to her tired soul. It was exquisitely clean, redolent of

sweet herbs, and in its atmosphere was a subtle, Puritan restraint.

Have not our houses, mute as they are, their own way of conveying an

impression? One may go into a house which has been empty for a long

time, and yet feel, instinctively, what sort of people were last

sheltered there. The silent walls breathe a message to each visitor, and

as the footfalls echo in the bare cheerless rooms, one discovers where

Sorrow and Trouble had their abode, and where the light, careless

laughter of gay Bohemia lingered until dawn. At night, who has not heard

ghostly steps upon the stairs, the soft closing of unseen doors, the

tapping on a window, and, perchance, a sigh or the sound of tears? Timid

souls may shudder and be afraid, but wiser folk smile, with reminiscent

tenderness, when the old house dreams.




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