"Yes, I think I do. I didn't sleep last night, but it's been years since
I've taken a nap in the daytime."
Ruth invited Carl to supper, and made them both sit still while she
prepared the simple meal, which, as he said, was "astonishingly good."
He was quite himself again, but Miss Ainslie, though trying to assume
her old manner, had undergone a great change.
Carl helped Ruth with the dishes, saying he supposed he might as well
become accustomed to it, and, feeling the need of sleep, went home very
early.
"I'm all right," he said to Ruth, as he kissed her at the door, "and
you're just the sweetest girl in the world. Good night, darling."
A chill mist came inland, and Ruth kept pine knots burning in the
fireplace. They sat without other light, Miss Ainslie with her head
resting upon her hand, and Ruth watching her narrowly. Now and then they
spoke aimlessly, of commonplaces.
When the last train came in, Miss Ainslie raised her eyes to the silver
candlestick that stood on the mantel and sighed.
"Shall I put the light in the window?" asked Ruth.
It was a long time before Miss Ainslie answered.
"No, deary," she said sadly, "never any more."
She was trying to hide her suffering, and Ruth's heart ached for her in
vain. The sound of the train died away in the distance and the firelight
faded.
"Ruth," she said, in a low voice, "I am going away."
"Away, Miss Ainslie? Where?"
"I don't know, dear--it's where we all go--'the undiscovered country
from whose bourne no traveller returns.' Sometimes it's a long journey
and sometimes a short one, but we all take it--alone--at the last."
Ruth's heart throbbed violently, then stood still.
"Don't!" she cried, sharply.
"I'm not afraid, dear, and I'm ready to go, even though you have made me
so happy--you and he."
Miss Ainslie waited a moment, then continued, in a different tone: "To-day the lawyer came and made my will. I haven't much--just this
little house, a small income paid semi-annually, and my--my things. All
my things are for you--the house and the income are for--for him."
Ruth was crying softly and Miss Ainslie went to her, laying her hand
caressingly upon the bowed head. "Don't, deary," she pleaded, "don't be
unhappy. I'm not afraid. I'm just going to sleep, that's all, to wake
in immortal dawn. I want you and him to have my things, because I love
you--because I've always loved you, and because I will--even afterward."
Ruth choked down her sobs, and Miss Ainslie drew her chair closer,
taking the girl's cold hand in hers. That touch, so strong and gentle,
that had always brought balm to her troubled spirit, did not fail in its
ministry now.