"I'm tired," she complained.
"Delicate compliment," observed Winfield, apparently to himself. "Here's
a log across our path, Miss Thorne; let's sit down."
The budded maples arched over the narrow path, and a wild canary,
singing in the sun, hopped from bough to bough. A robin's cheery chirp
came from another tree, and the clear notes of a thrush, with a mottled
breast, were answered by another in the gold-green aisles beyond.
"Oh," he said, under his breath, "isn't this great!"
The exquisite peace of the forest was like that of another sphere.
"Yes," she answered, softly, "it is beautiful."
"You're evading the original subject," he suggested, a little later.
"I haven't had a chance to talk," she explained. "You've done a
monologue ever since we left the house, and I listened, as becomes
inferior and subordinate woman. I have never seen my venerated
kinswoman, and I don't see how she happened to think of me.
Nevertheless, when she wrote, asking me to take charge of her house
while she went to Europe, I gladly consented, sight unseen. When I
came, she was gone. I do not deny the short skirt and heavy shoes, the
criticism of boiled coffee, nor the disdain of breakfast pie. As far is
I know, Aunt Jane is my only living relative."
"That's good," he said, cheerfully; "I'm shy even of an aunt. Why
shouldn't the orphans console one another?"
"They should," admitted Ruth; "and you are doing your share nobly."
"Permit me to return the compliment. Honestly, Miss Thorne," he
continued, seriously, "you have no idea how much I appreciate your being
here. When I first realised what it meant to be deprived of books and
papers for six months at a stretch, it seemed as if I should go mad.
Still, I suppose six months isn't as bad as forever, and I was given
a choice. I don't want to bore you, but if you will let me come
occasionally, I shall be very glad. I'm going to try to be patient, too,
if you'll help me--patience isn't my long suit."
"Indeed I will help you," answered Ruth, impulsively; "I know how hard
it must be."
"I'm not begging for your sympathy, though I assure you it is welcome."
He polished the tinted glasses with a bit of chamois.. and his eyes
filled with the mist of weakness before he put them on again. "So you've
never seen your aunt," he said.
"No--that pleasure is still in store for me."
"They say down at the 'Widder's' that she's a woman with a romance."
"Tell me about it!" exclaimed Ruth, eagerly.
"Little girls mustn't ask questions," he remarked, patronisingly, and
in his most irritating manner. "Besides, I don't know. If the 'Widder'
knows, she won't tell, so it's fair to suppose she doesn't. Your
relation does queer things in the attic, and every Spring, she has an
annual weep. I suppose it's the house cleaning, for the rest of the year
she's dry-eyed and calm."