Still farther south and below the hill was a grassy plain, through which
a glistening river wound slowly to the ocean. Willows grew along its
margin, tipped with silvery green, and with masses of purple twilight
tangled in the bare branches below.
Ruth opened the window and drew a long breath. Her senses had been
dulled by the years in the city, but childhood, hidden though not
forgotten, came back as if by magic, with that first scent of sea and
Spring.
As yet, she had not fully realised how grateful she was for this little
time away from her desk and typewriter. The managing editor had promised
her the same position, whenever she chose to go back, and there was a
little hoard in the savings-bank, which she would not need to touch,
owing to the kindness of this eccentric aunt, whom she had never seen.
The large room was a typical attic, with its spinning-wheel and
discarded furniture--colonial mahogany that would make many a city
matron envious, and for which its owner cared little or nothing. There
were chests of drawers, two or three battered trunks, a cedar chest, and
countless boxes, of various sizes. Bunches of sweet herbs hung from the
rafters, but there were no cobwebs, because of Miss Hathaway's perfect
housekeeping.
Ruth regretted the cobwebs and decided not to interfere, should the tiny
spinners take advantage of Aunt Jane's absence. She found an old chair
which was unsteady on its rockers but not yet depraved enough to betray
one's confidence. Moving it to the window, she sat down and looked out
at the sea, where the slow boom of the surf came softly from the shore,
mingled with the liquid melody of returning breakers.
The first grey of twilight had come upon the world before she thought
of going downstairs. A match-safe hung upon the window casing, newly
filled, and, mindful of her trust, she lighted the lamp and closed the
window. Then a sudden scream from the floor below startled her.
"Miss Thorne! Miss Thorne!" cried a shrill voice. "Come here! Quick!"
White as a sheet, Ruth flew downstairs and met Hepsey in the hall. "What
on earth is the matter!" she gasped.
"Joe's come with your trunk," responded that volcanic young woman,
amiably; "where'd you want it put?"
"In the south front room," she answered, still frightened, but glad
nothing more serious had happened. "You mustn't scream like that."
"Supper's ready," resumed Hepsey, nonchalantly, and Ruth followed her
down to the little dining-room.
As she ate, she plied the maid with questions. "Does Miss Hathaway light
that lamp in the attic every night?"