Lavender and Old Lace

The rumble of voices which came from the kitchen was not disturbing, but

when the rural lovers began to sit on the piazza, directly under Ruth's

window, she felt called upon to remonstrate.

"Hepsey," she asked, one morning, "why don't you and Joe sit under the

trees at the side of the house? You can take your chairs out there."

"Miss Hathaway allerss let us set on the piazzer," returned Hepsey,

unmoved.

"Miss Hathaway probably sleeps more soundly than I do. You don't want me

to hear everything you say, do you?"

Hepsey shrugged her buxom shoulders. "You can if you like, mum."

"But I don't like," snapped Ruth. "It annoys me."

There was an interval of silence, then Hepsey spoke again, of her own

accord. "If Joe and me was to set anywheres but in front, he might see

the light."

"Well, what of it?"

"Miss Hathaway, she don't want it talked of, and men folks never can

keep secrets," Hepsey suggested.

"You wouldn't have to tell him, would you?"

"Yes'm. Men folks has got terrible curious minds. They're all right if

they don't know there's nothin', but if they does, why they's keen."

"Perhaps you're right, Hepsey," she replied, biting her lips. "Sit

anywhere you please."

There were times when Ruth was compelled to admit that Hepsey's mental

gifts were fully equal to her own. It was unreasonable to suppose, even

for an instant, that Joe and Hepsey had not pondered long and earnestly

upon the subject of the light in the attic window, yet the argument

was unanswerable. The matter had long since lost its interest for

Ruth--perhaps because she was too happy to care.

Winfield had easily acquired the habit of bringing her his morning

papers, and, after the first embarrassment, Ruth settled down to it in

a businesslike way. Usually, she sat in Miss Hathaway's sewing chair,

under a tree a little way from the house, that she might at the same

time have a general supervision of her domain, while Winfield stretched

himself upon the grass at her feet. When the sun was bright, he wore his

dark glasses, thereby gaining an unfair advantage.

After breakfast, which was a movable feast at the "Widder's," he went

after his mail and brought hers also. When he reached the top of the

hill, she was always waiting for him.

"This devotion is very pleasing," he remarked, one morning.

"Some people are easily pleased," she retorted. "I dislike to spoil your

pleasure, but my stern regard for facts compels me to say that it is not

Mr. Winfield I wait for, but the postman."

"Then I'll always be your postman, for I 'do admire' to be waited for,

as they have it at the 'Widder's.' Of course, it's more or less of an

expense--this morning, for instance, I had to dig up two cents to get

one of your valuable manuscripts out of the clutches of an interested

government."