: "You make the best biscuits I ever
tasted, Hepsey." The girl smiled, but made no reply.

"What makes you think Miss Ainslie has anything to do with the light?"
she inquired after a little.

"'Cause there wasn't no light in that winder when I first
come--leastways, not as I know of--and after I'd been here a week or so,
Miss Hathaway, she come back from there one day looking kinder strange.
She didn't say much; but the next mornin' she goes down to town and buys
that lamp, and she saws off them table legs herself. Every night since,
that light's been a-goin', and she puts it out herself every mornin'
before she comes downstairs."

"Perhaps she and Miss Ainslie had been talking of shipwreck, and she
thought she would have a little lighthouse of her own," Miss Thorne
suggested, when the silence became oppressive.

"P'raps so," rejoined Hepsey. She had become stolid again.

Ruth pushed her chair back and stood at the dining-room window a moment,
looking out into the yard. The valley was in shadow, but the last light
still lingered on the hill. "What's that, Hepsey?" she asked.

"What's what?"

"That--where the evergreen is coming up out of the ground, in the shape
of a square."

"That's the cat's grave, mum. She died jest afore Miss Hathaway went
away, and she planted the evergreen."

"I thought something was lacking," said Ruth, half to herself.

"Do you want a kitten, Miss Thorne?" inquired Hepsey, eagerly. "I reckon
I can get you one--Maltese or white, just as you like."

"No, thank you, Hepsey; I don't believe I'll import any pets."

"Jest as you say, mum. It's sorter lonesome, though, with no cat; and
Miss Hathaway said she didn't want no more."

Speculating upon the departed cat's superior charms, that made
substitution seem like sacrilege to Miss Hathaway, Ruth sat down for a
time in the old-fashioned parlour, where the shabby haircloth
furniture was ornamented with "tidies" to the last degree. There was
a marble-topped centre table in the room, and a basket of wax flowers
under a glass case, Mrs. Hemans's poems, another book, called The Lady's
Garland, and the family Bible were carefully arranged upon it.

A hair wreath, also sheltered by glass, hung on the wall near another
collection of wax flowers suitably framed. There were various portraits
of people whom Miss Thorne did not know, though she was a near relative
of their owner, and two tall, white china vases, decorated with gilt,
flanked the