The fire died out and left the room in darkness, broken only by the last
fitful glow. Ruth could not speak, and Miss Ainslie sat quietly in her
chair. "Come," she said at last, stretching out her hand, "let's go
upstairs. I have kept you up, deary, and I know you must be very tired."
The house seemed filled with a shadowy presence--something intangible,
but portentous, for both good and ill. Ruth took down the heavy mass of
white hair and brushed it back, tying it at the neck with a ribbon, in
girlish fashion, as Miss Ainslie always did. Her night gown, of sheerest
linen, was heavy with Valenciennes lace, and where it fell back from her
throat, it revealed the flesh, exquisitely white, set in gracious curves
and womanly softness, as if by a sculptor who loved his clay.
The sweet, wholesome scent of the lavender flowers breathed from the
folds of Miss Ainslie's gown, as she stood there in the candle light,
smiling, with the unearthly glow still upon her face.
"Good night, deary," she said; "you'll kiss me, won't you?"
For a moment the girl's face was buried among Miss Ainslie's laces, then
their lips met. Ruth was trembling and she hurried away, swallowing the
lump in her throat and trying to keep back the tears.
The doors were open, and there was no sound save Miss Ainslie's deep
breathing, but Ruth kept a dreary vigil till almost dawn.