The summer waned and each day, as it slipped away, took a little of Miss
Ainslie's strength with it. There was neither disease nor pain--it
was simply a letting go. Carl sent to the city for a physician of wide
repute, but he shook his head. "There's nothing the matter with her," he
said, "but she doesn't want to live. Just keep her as happy as you can."
For a time she went about the house as usual, but, gradually, more
and more of her duties fell to Ruth. Hepsey came in every day after
breakfast, and again in the late afternoon.
Ruth tried to get her to go out for a drive, but she refused. "No,
deary," she said, smiling, "I've never been away, and I'm too old to
begin now." Neighbours, hearing of her illness, came to offer sympathy
and help, but she would see none of them--not even Aunt Jane.
One night, she sat at the head of the table as usual; for she would
not surrender her place as hostess, even though she ate nothing, and
afterward a great weakness came upon her. "I don't know how I'll ever
get upstairs," she said, frightened; "it seems such a long way!"
Winfield took her in his arms and carried her up, as gently and easily
as if she had been a child. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright
when he put her down. "I never thought it would be so easy," she said,
in answer to his question. "You'll stay with me, won't you, Carl? I
don't want you to go away."
"I'll stay as long as you want me, Miss Ainslie, and Ruth will, too. We
couldn't do too much for you."
That night, as they sat in front of the fire, while Miss Ainslie slept
upstairs, Ruth told him what she had said about leaving him the house
and the little income and giving her the beautiful things in the house.
"Bless her sweet heart," he said tenderly, "we don't want her
things--we'd rather have her."
"Indeed we would," she answered quickly.
Until the middle of September she went back and forth from her own room
to the sitting-room with comparative ease. They took turns bringing
dainties to tempt her appetite, but, though she ate a little of
everything and praised it warmly, especially if Ruth had made it, she
did it, evidently, only out of consideration for them.
She read a little, talked a little, and slept a great deal. One day she
asked Carl to pull the heavy sandal wood chest over near her chair, and
give her the key, which hung behind a picture.
"Will you please go away now," she asked, with a winning smile, "for
just a little while?"
He put the bell on a table within her reach and asked her to ring if she
wanted anything. The hours went by and there was no sound. At last he
went up, very quietly, and found her asleep. The chest was locked and
the key was not to be found. He did not know whether she had opened it
or not, but she let him put it in its place again, without a word.