heart ached for the artist in the blue tunic,
whose name she did not know. When she learned that her husband was to be
the man she had loved for so long, tears of happiness came into her dark
eyes.

"The vase had disappeared, mysteriously, and he offered a large reward
for its recovery. At last they were compelled to give up the hope of
finding it, and he promised to make her another one, just like it, with
the same flowers and butterflies and even the little glints of gold that
marked the days she came. So she watched him, while he made the new one,
and even more love went into it than into the first one."

"And--" began Miss Ainslie.

"Some one who loved you brought it to you."

"Yes," she repeated, smiling, "some one who loved me."

Winfield fitted a story to every object in the room. Each rug had a
different history and every bit of tapestry its own tale. He conjured up
an Empress who had once owned the teakwood chair, and a Marquise, with
patches and powdered hair, who wrote love letters at the marquetry
table.

He told stories of the sea shells, and of the mermaids who brought them
to the shore, that some one who loved her might take them to her, and
that the soft sound of the sea might always come to her ears, with
visions of blue skies and tropic islands, where the sun forever shone.

The Empress and the Marquise became real people to Miss Ainslie, and the
Japanese lovers seemed to smile at her from the vase. Sometimes, holding
the rug on her lap, she would tell them how it was woven, and repeat the
love story of a beautiful woman who had worked upon the tapestry. Often,
in the twilight, she would sing softly to herself, snatches of forgotten
melodies, and, once, a lullaby. Ruth and Carl sat by, watching for the
slightest change, but she never spoke of the secret in her heart.

Ruth had the north room, across the hall, where there were two dressers.
One of them had been empty, until she put her things into it, and the
other was locked. She found the key, one day, hanging behind it, when
she needed some things for Miss Ainslie.

As she had half expected, the dresser was full of lingerie, of the
finest lawn and linen. The dainty garments were edged with real
lace--Brussels, Valenciennes, Mechlin, Point d'Alencon, and the fine
Irish laces. Sometimes there was a cluster of tucks, daintily run by
hand, but, usually, only the lace, unless there was a bit of insertion
to match. The buttons were mother of pear