"Good morning, Hepsey," she said, cheerily; "am I late?"
"Yes'm. It's goin' on eight, and Miss Hathaway allers has breakfast at
half past six."
"How ghastly," Ruth thought. "I should have told you," she said, "I will
have mine at eight."
"Yes'm," replied Hepsey, apparently unmoved. "What time do you want
dinner?"
"At six o'clock--luncheon at half past one."
Hepsey was puzzled, but in a few moments she understood that dinner was
to be served at night and supper at midday. Breakfast had already been
moved forward an hour and a half, and stranger things might happen at
any minute.
Ruth had several other reforms in mind, but deemed it best to wait.
After breakfast, she remembered the lamp in the window and went up to
put it out.
It was still burning when she reached it, though the oil was almost
gone, and, placing it by the stairway, that she might not forget to have
it filled, she determined to explore the attic to her heart's content.
The sunlight streamed through the east window and searched the farthest
corners of the room. The floor was bare and worn, but carefully swept,
and the things that were stored there were huddled together far back
under the eaves, as if to make room for others.
It was not idle curiosity, but delicate sentiment, that made Ruth eager
to open the trunks and dresser drawers, and to turn over the contents of
the boxes that were piled together and covered with dust. The interest
of the lower part of the house paled in comparison with the first real
attic she had ever been in.
After all, why not? Miss Hathaway was her aunt,--her mother's only
sister,--and the house was in her care. There was no earthly reason
why she should not amuse herself in her own way. Ruth's instincts were
against it, but Reason triumphed.
The bunches of dried herbs, hanging from the rafters and swaying back
and forth in ghostly fashion, gave out a wholesome fragrance, and
when she opened trunks whose lids creaked on their rusty hinges,
dried rosemary, lavender, and sweet clover filled the room with that
long-stored sweetness which is the gracious handmaiden of Memory.
Miss Hathaway was a thrifty soul, but she never stored discarded
clothing that might be of use to any one, and so Ruth found no
moth-eaten garments of bygone pattern, but only things which seemed to
be kept for the sake of their tender associations.
There were letters, on whose yellowed pages the words had long since
faded, a dogeared primer, and several well worn schoolbooks, each having
on its fly-leaf: "Jane Hathaway, Her Book"; scraps of lace, brocade ard
rustling taffeta, quilt patterns, needlebooks, and all of the eloquent
treasures that a well stored attic can yield.