world had stung her into a sense of
her isolation, which she realised even more keenly than before. It was
because of this, she told herself, that she hoped Winfield liked her,
for it was not her wont to care about such trifles. He thought of her,
idly, as a nice girl, who was rather pretty when she was interested in
anything; but, with a woman's insight, influenced insensibly by Hepsey's
comment, Ruth scented possibilities.

She wanted him to like her, to stay in that miserable village as long as
she did, and keep her mind from stagnation--her thought went no further
than that. In October, when they went back, she would thank Carlton,
prettily, for sending her a friend--provided they did not quarrel. She
could see long days of intimate companionship, of that exalted kind
which is, possible only when man and woman meet on a high plane. "We're
both too old for nonsense," she thought; and then a sudden fear struck
her, that Winfield might be several years younger than she was.

Immediately she despised herself. "I don't care if he is," she thought,
with her cheeks crimson; "it's nothing to me. He's a nice boy, and I
want to be amused."

She went to her dresser, took out the large top drawer, and dumped its
contents on the bed. It was a desperate measure, for Ruth hated to put
things in order. The newspaper which had lain in the bottom of it had
fallen out also, and she shook it so violently that she tore it.

Then ribbons, handkerchiefs, stocks, gloves, and collars were
unceremoniously hustled back into the drawer, for Miss Thorne was at
odds with herself and the world. She was angry with Hepsey, she hated
Winfield, and despised herself. She picked up a scrap of paper which lay
on a glove, and caught a glimpse of unfamiliar penmanship.

It was apparently the end of a letter, and the rest of it was gone. "At
Gibraltar for some time," she read, "keeping a shop, but will probably
be found now in some small town on the coast of Italy. Very truly
yours." The signature had been torn off.

"Why, that isn't mine," she thought. "It must be something of Aunt
Jane's." Another bit of paper lay near it, and, unthinkingly, she read a
letter which was not meant for her.

"I thank you from my heart," it began, "for understanding me. I could
not put it into words, but I believe you know. Perhaps you think it is
useless--that it is too late; but if it was, I would know. You have been
very kind, and I thank you."

There was neithe