"I know you have--I've often admired it."
"I'm going to show it to you some day," she said, with a little quiver
in her voice, "and some other day, when I can't wear it any more, you
shall have some of it for your own."
"Don't, Miss Ainslie," cried Ruth, the quick tears coming to her eyes,
"I don't want any lace--I want you!"
"I know," she answered, but there was a far-away look in her eyes, and
something in her voice that sounded like a farewell.
"Miss Thorne," called Joe from the gate, "here's a package for yer. It
come on the train."
He waited until Ruth went to him and seemed disappointed when she turned
back into the garden. "Say," he shouted, "is Hepsey to home?"
Ruth was busy with the string and did not hear. "Oh, look!" she
exclaimed, "what roses!"
"They're beautiful, deary. I do not think I have ever seen such large
ones. Do you know what they are?"
"American Beauties--they're from Mr. Winfield. He knows I love them."
Miss Ainslie started violently. "From whom, dear?" she asked, in a
strange tone.
"Mr. Winfield--he's going to be on the same paper with me in the Fall.
He's here for the Summer, on account of his eyes."
Miss Ainslie was bending over the lavender.
"It is a very common name, is it not?" she asked.
"Yes, quite common," answered Ruth, absently, taking the roses out of
the box.
"You must bring him to see me some time, dear; I should like to know
him."
"Thank you, Miss Ainslie, I will."
They stood at the gate together, and Ruth put a half blown rose into her
hand. "I wouldn't give it to anybody but you," she said, half playfully,
and then Miss Ainslie knew her secret. She put her hand on Ruth's arm
and looked down into her face, as if there was something she must say.
"I don't forget the light, Miss Ainslie."
"I know," she breathed, in answer. She looked long and searchingly into
Ruth's eyes, then whispered brokenly, "God bless you, dear. Good bye!"