Ruth strolled over to the window, thinking that she must be going,
and Miss Ainslie still held the picture in her hand. "She had a lover,
didn't she?" asked Ruth, idly.
"I-I-think so," answered the other, unwillingly. "You remember we
quarrelled."
A young man stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Miss Ainslie's
house, and then at the brown one across the hill. From her position
in the window, Ruth saw him plainly. He hesitated a moment, then went
toward the brown house. She noted that he was a stranger--there was no
such topcoat in the village.
"Was his name Winfield?" she asked suddenly, then instantly hated
herself for the question.
The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainslie stooped to pick it up and
Ruth did not see her face. "Perhaps," she said, in a strange tone, "but
I never have asked a lady the name of her friend."
Gentle as it was, Ruth felt the rebuke keenly. An apology was on her
lips, but only her flushed cheeks betrayed any emotion. Miss Ainslie's
face was pale, and there was unmistakable resentment in her eyes.
"I must go," Ruth said, after an awkward silence, and in an instant Miss
Ainslie was herself again.
"No-you mustn't go, deary. You haven't seen my garden yet. I have
planted all the seeds and some of them are coming up. Isn't it beautiful
to see things grow?"
"It is indeed," Ruth assented, forgetting the momentary awkwardness,
"and I have lived for a long time where I have seen nothing grow but car
tracks and high buildings. May I come again and see your garden?"
"I shall be so glad to have you," replied Miss Ainslie, with a quaint
stateliness. "I have enjoyed your visit so much and I hope you will come
again very soon."
"Thank you--I will."
Her hostess had opened the door for her, but Ruth stood in the hall,
waiting, in obedience to some strange impulse. Then she stepped outside,
but something held her back-something that lay unspoken between them.
Those unfathomable eyes were fixed upon her, questioning, pleading, and
searching her inmost soul.
Ruth looked at her, wondering, and striving to answer the mute appeal.
Then Miss Ainslie laid her hand upon her arm. "My dear," she asked,
earnestly, "do you light the lamp in the attic window every night?"
"Yes, I do, Miss Ainslie," she answered, quickly.
The older woman caught her breath, as if in relief, and then the deep
crimson flooded her face.
"Hepsey told me and Aunt Jane left a letter about it," Ruth continued,
hastily, "and I am very glad to do it. It would be dreadful to have a
ship wrecked, almost at our door."
"Yes," sighed Miss Ainslie, her colour receding, "I have often thought
of 'those who go down to the sea in ships.' It is so terrible, and
sometimes, when I hear the surf beating against the cliff, I--I am
afraid."