ped. "It's my father's
picture!"

Miss Ainslie's voice rose again in pitiful cadence. "Carl, Carl, dear!
Where are you? I want you--oh, I want you!"

He hastened to her, leaving the picture in Ruth's hand. It was an
ambrotype, set into a case lined with purple velvet. The face was
that of a young man, not more than twenty-five or thirty, who looked
strangely like Winfield. The eyes, forehead and the poise of the head
were the same.

The earth trembled beneath Ruth's feet for a moment, then, all at once,
she understood. The light in the attic window, the marked paragraph in
the paper, and the death notices--why, yes, the Charles Winfield who
had married Abigail Weatherby was Miss Ainslie's lover, and Carl was his
son. "He went away!" Miss Ainslie's voice came again to Ruth, when she
told her story, with no hint of her lover's name. He went away, and
soon afterward, married Abigail Weatherby, but why? Was it love at first
sight, or did he believe that his sweetheart was dead? Then Carl
was born and the mother died. Twelve years afterward, he followed
her--broken hearted. Carl had told her that his father could not bear
the smell of lavender nor the sight of any shade of purple--and Miss
Ainslie always wore lavender and lived in the scent of it--had he come
to shrink from it through remorse?

Why was it, she wondered? Had he forgotten Miss Ainslie, or had he
been suddenly swept off his feet by some blind whirlwind of passion? In
either case, memory had returned to torture him a thousand fold--to make
him ashamed to face her, with his boy in his arms.

And Aunt Jane knew of the marriage, at the time, probably, and said
no word. Then she learned of Abigail Weatherby's death, and was still
silent, hoping, perhaps, that the wanderer would come back, until she
learned that Charles Winfield, too, was dead. And still she had not told
Miss Ainslie, or, possibly, thought she knew it all till the day that
Hepsey had spoken of; when she came home, looking "strange," to keep the
light in the attic window every night for more than five years.

Was it kind? Ruth doubted for a moment, then her heart softened with
love for Aunt Jane, who had hidden the knowledge that would be a death
blow to Miss Ainslie, and let her live on, happy in her dream, while the
stern Puritan conscience made her keep the light in the attic window in
fulfilment of her promise.

As if the little light could reach the veil which hangs between us
and Eterni