As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first the

country brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously,

but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's a fortnight before she bitterly

regretted the step she had taken.

Still there was no going back, for she had given her word, and must stay

there until October. The months before her stretched out into a dreary

waste. She thought of Miss Ainslie gratefully, as a redeeming feature,

but she knew that it was impossible to spend all of her time in the

house--it the foot of the hill.

Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet more

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than once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock, before Hepsey was

stiring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walk

through the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and each

day was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful,

moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yet

knowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there.

She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepsey

stalked in, unannounced, and gave her a card.

"Mr. Carl Winfield!" Ruth repeated aloud. "Some one to see me, Hepsey?"

she asked, in astonishment.

"Yes'm. He's a-waitin' on the piazzer."

"Didn't you ask him to come in?"

"No'm. Miss Hathaway, she don't want no strangers in her house."

"Go down immediately," commanded Ruth, sternly, "ask him into the

parlour, and say that Miss Thorne will be down in a few moments."

"Yes'm."

Hepsey shuffled downstairs with comfortable leisure, opened the door

with aggravating slowness, then said, in a harsh tone that reached the

upper rooms distinctly: "Miss Thorne, she says that you can come in and

set in the parlour till she comes down."

"Thank you," responded a masculine voice, in quiet amusement; "Miss

Thorne is kind--and generous."

Ruth's cheeks flushed hotly. "I don't know whether Miss Thorne will go

down or not," she said to herself. "It's probably a book-agent."

She rocked pensively for a minute or two, wondering what would happen if

she did not go down. There was no sound from the parlour save a subdued

clearing of the throat. "He's getting ready to speak his piece," she

thought, "and he might as well do it now as to wait for me."

Though she loathed Mr. Carl Winfield and his errand, whatever it might

prove to be, she stopped before her mirror long enough to give a pat

or two to her rebellious hair. On the way down she determined to be

dignified, icy, and crushing.

A tall young fellow with a pleasant face rose to greet her as she

entered the room. "Miss Thorne?" he inquired.




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