The maid sat in the kitchen, wondering why Miss Thorne did not come
down. It was almost seven o'clock, and Miss Hathaway's breakfast hour
was half past six. Hepsey did not frame the thought, but she had a vague
impression that the guest was lazy.
Yet she was grateful for the new interest which had come into
her monotonous life. Affairs moved like clock work at Miss
Hathaway's--breakfast at half past six, dinner at one, and supper at
half past five. Each day was also set apart by its regular duties, from
the washing on Monday to the baking on Saturday.
Now it was possible that there might be a change. Miss Thorne seemed
fully capable of setting the house topsy-turvy--and Miss Hathaway's last
injunction had been: "Now, Hepsey, you mind Miss Thorne. If I hear that
you don't, you'll lose your place."
The young woman who slumbered peacefully upstairs, while the rest of the
world was awake, had, from the beginning, aroused admiration in
Hepsey's breast. It was a reluctant, rebellious feeling, mingled with an
indefinite fear, but it was admiration none the less.
During the greater part of a wondering, wakeful night, the excited
Hepsey had seen Miss Thorne as plainly as when she first entered the
house. The tall, straight, graceful figure was familiar by this time,
and the subdued silken rustle of her skirts was a wonted sound. Ruth's
face, naturally mobile, had been schooled into a certain reserve, but
her deep, dark eyes were eloquent, and always would be. Hepsey wondered
at the opaque whiteness of her skin and the baffling arrangement of her
hair. The young women of the village had rosy cheeks, but Miss Thorne's
face was colourless, except for her lips.
It was very strange, Hepsey thought, for Miss Hathaway to sail before
her niece came, if, indeed, Miss Thorne was her niece. There was a
mystery in the house on the hilltop, which she had tried in vain to
fathom. Foreign letters came frequently, no two of them from the same
person, and the lamp in the attic window had burned steadily every night
for five years. Otherwise, everything was explainable and sane.
Still, Miss Thorne did not seem even remotely related to her aunt, and
Hepsey had her doubts. Moreover, the guest had an uncanny gift which
amounted to second sight. How did she know that all of Hepsey's books
had yellow covers? Miss Hathaway could not have told her in the letter,
for the mistress was not awire of her maid's literary tendencies.
It was half past seven, but no sound came from upstairs. She replenished
the fire and resumed meditation. Whatever Miss Thorne might prove to be,
she was decidedly interesting. It wis pleasant to watch her, to feel the
subtle refinement of all her belongings, and to wonder what was going to
happen next. Perhaps Miss Thorne would take her back to the city, as
her maid, when Miss Hathaway came home, for, in the books, such things
frequently happened. Would she go? Hepsey was trying to decide, when
there was a light, rapid step on the stairs, a moment's hesitation in
the hall, and Miss Thorne came into the dining-room.