Lavender and Old Lace

"I dream every night," she said. "Sometimes they're just silly, foolish

things and sometimes they're vivid and horrible realities that I can't

forget for weeks. But, surely, dear, we're not foolish enough to believe

in dreams?"

"No, I hope not," he replied, doubtfully.

"Let's go for a little walk," she said, "and we'll forget it."

Then she told him how changed Miss Ainslie was and how she had left her,

sitting aimlessly by the window. "I don't think I'd better stay away

long," she concluded, "she may need me."

"I won't be selfish, Ruth; we'll go back now. I'm sorry Miss Ainslie

isn't well."

"She said she was 'just tired' but it isn't like her to be tired. She

doesn't seem to want anybody near her, but you can sit in the garden

this afternoon, if you'd like to, and I'll flit in and out like an

industrious butterfly. Some new books have just come, and I'll leave

them in the arbour for you."

"All right, dear, and if there's anything I can do, I hope you'll tell

me."

As they approached the house, a brisk little man hurried out of the gate

and went toward the village.

"Who's that?" asked Winfield.

"I don't know--some one who has brought something, probably. I trust

she's better."

Miss Ainslie seemed more like herself, as she moved about the house,

dusting and putting the rooms in order, as was her wont. At noon she

fried a bit of chicken for Ruth, but took nothing herself except a cup

of tea.

"No, deary," she said, in answer to Ruth's anxious question, "I'm all

right--don't fret about me." "Have you any pain, Miss Ainslie?"

"No, of course I haven't, you foolish child!"

She tried to smile, but her white lips quivered pitifully.

In the afternoon, when she said she was cold, Ruth made a fire in the

open fireplace, and wheeled Miss Ainslie's favourite chair in front of

it. She drew her shawl about her shoulders and leaned back.

"I'm so comfortable, now," she said drowsily; "I think I'm going to

sleep, dear."

Ruth sat by her, pretending to read, but, in reality, watching her

closely, until the deep, regular breathing assured her that she was

asleep. She went out into the garden and found Winfield in the arbour.

"How's this patient?" she asked, kissing him lightly on the forehead.

"I'm all right, dearest," he answered, drawing her down beside him, "and

I'm ashamed of myself because I was so foolish."

During the afternoon Ruth made frequent trips to the house, each time

finding Miss Ainslie sound asleep. It was after six o'clock when she

woke and rubbed her eyes, wonderingly.

"How long have I been asleep, Ruth?"

"All the afternoon, Miss Ainslie--do you feel better now?"