Lavender and Old Lace

He, too, had eaten of the lotus and lost the desire to go back to town.

From the hilltop they could see the yellow fields and hear the soft

melody of reaping from the valley around them. He and Ruth often walked

together, but Miss Ainslie never would go with them. She stayed quietly

at home, as she had done for many years.

Every night, when the last train came from the city, she put a lighted

candle in her front window, using always the candlestick of solid

silver, covered with fretwork in intricate design. If Winfield was

there, she managed to have him and Ruth in another room. At half-past

ten, she took it away, sighing softly as she put out the light.

Ruth wondered, but said nothing, even to Winfield. The grain in

the valley was bound in sheaves, and the first colour came on the

maples--sometimes in a delicate flush, or a flash of gold, and sometimes

like a blood-red wound.

One morning, when Miss Ainslie came downstairs, Ruth was startled at

the change in her. The quick, light step was slow and heavy, the broad,

straight shoulders drooped a little, and her face, while still dimpled

and fair, was subtly different. Behind her deep, violet eyes lay an

unspeakable sadness and the rosy tints were gone. Her face was as pure

and cold as marble, with the peace of the dead laid upon it. She seemed

to have grown old in a single night.

All day she said little or nothing and would not eat. She simply sat

still, looking out of the east window. "No," she said, gently, to Ruth,

"nothing is the matter, deary, I'm just tired."

When Winfield came, she kept him away from Miss Ainslie without seeming

to do so. "Let's go for a walk," she said. She tried to speak lightly,

but there was a lump in her throat and a tightening at her heart.

They climbed the hill and took the side path which led to the woods,

following it down and through the aisles of trees, to the log across the

path. Ruth was troubled and sat there some little time without speaking,

then suddenly, she knew that something was wrong with Carl.

Her heart was filled with strange foreboding and she vainly tried to

swallow the persistent lump in her throat. She spoke to him, gently,

once or twice and he did not seem to hear. "Carl!" she cried in agony,

"Carl! What is it?"

He tried to shake off the spell which lay upon him. "Nothing, darling,"

he said unsteadily, with something of the old tenderness. "I'm weak--and

foolish--that's all."

"Carl! Dearest!" she cried, and then broke down, sobbing bitterly.

Her tears aroused him and he tried to soothe her. "Ruth, my darling

girl, don't cry. We have each other, sweetheart, and it doesn't

matter--nothing matters in the whole, wide world."