astonishment as they went down hill together, for it was
not in her code of manners that "walking out" should begin so soon. When
they approached Miss Ainslie's he pointed out the brown house across
from it, on the other side of the hill.

"Yonder palatial mansion is my present lodging," he volunteered, "and I
am a helpless fly in the web of the 'Widder' Pendleton."

"Pendleton," repeated Ruth; "why, that's Joe's name."

"It is," returned Winfield, concisely. "He sits opposite me at the
table, and wonders at my use of a fork. It is considered merely a spear
for bread and meat at the 'Widder's.' I am observed closely at all
times, and in some respects Joe admires me enough to attempt imitation,
which, as you know, is the highest form of flattery. For instance, this
morning he wore not only a collar and tie, but a scarf pin. It was
a string tie, and I've never before seen a pin worn in one, but it's
interesting."

"It must be."

"He has a sweetheart," Winfield went on, "and I expect she'll be
dazzled."

"My Hepsey is his lady love," Ruth explained.

"What? The haughty damsel who wouldn't let me in? Do tell!"

"You're imitating now," laughed Ruth, "but I shouldn't call it
flattery."

For a moment, there was a chilly silence. Ruth did not look at him, but
she bit her lip and then laughed, unwillingly. "'It's all true," she
said, "I plead guilty."

"You see, I know all about you," he went on. "You knit your brows in
deep thought, do not hear when you are spoken to, even in a loud voice,
and your mail consists almost entirely of bulky envelopes, of a legal
nature, such as came to the 'Widder' Pendleton from the insurance
people."

"Returned manuscripts," she interjected.

"Possibly--far be it from me to say they're not. Why, I've had 'em
myself."

"You don't mean it!" she exclaimed, ironically.

"You seek out, as if by instinct, the only crazy person in the village,
and come home greatly perturbed. You ask queer questions of your humble
serving-maid, assume a skirt which is shorter than the approved model,
speaking from the village standpoint, and unhesitatingly appear on
the public streets. You go to the attic at night and search the inmost
recesses of many old trunks."

"Yes," sighed Ruth, "I've done all that."

"At breakfast you refuse pie, and complain because the coffee is boiled.
Did anybody ever hear of coffee that wasn't boiled? Is it eaten raw
in the city? You call supper 'dinner,' and have been