ever since we left the house, and I listened, as becomes
inferior and subordinate woman. I have never seen my venerated
kinswoman, and I don't see how she happened to think of me.
Nevertheless, when she wrote, asking me to take charge of her house
while she went to Europe, I gladly consented, sight unseen. When I
came, she was gone. I do not deny the short skirt and heavy shoes, the
criticism of boiled coffee, nor the disdain of breakfast pie. As far is
I know, Aunt Jane is my only living relative."

"That's good," he said, cheerfully; "I'm shy even of an aunt. Why
shouldn't the orphans console one another?"

"They should," admitted Ruth; "and you are doing your share nobly."

"Permit me to return the compliment. Honestly, Miss Thorne," he
continued, seriously, "you have no idea how much I appreciate your being
here. When I first realised what it meant to be deprived of books and
papers for six months at a stretch, it seemed as if I should go mad.
Still, I suppose six months isn't as bad as forever, and I was given
a choice. I don't want to bore you, but if you will let me come
occasionally, I shall be very glad. I'm going to try to be patient, too,
if you'll help me--patience isn't my long suit."

"Indeed I will help you," answered Ruth, impulsively; "I know how hard
it must be."

"I'm not begging for your sympathy, though I assure you it is welcome."
He polished the tinted glasses with a bit of chamois.. and his eyes
filled with the mist of weakness before he put them on again. "So you've
never seen your aunt," he said.

"No--that pleasure is still in store for me."

"They say down at the 'Widder's' that she's a woman with a romance."

"Tell me about it!" exclaimed Ruth, eagerly.

"Little girls mustn't ask questions," he remarked, patronisingly, and
in his most irritating manner. "Besides, I don't know. If the 'Widder'
knows, she won't tell, so it's fair to suppose she doesn't. Your
relation does queer things in the attic, and every Spring, she has an
annual weep. I suppose it's the house cleaning, for the rest of the year
she's dry-eyed and calm."

"I weep very frequently," commented Ruth.

"'Tears, idle tears--I wonder what they mean.'"

"They don't mean much, in the case of a woman."

"I've never seen many of'em," returned Winfield, "and I don't want to.
Even stage tears go against the grain with me. I know that the lady who
sobs behind the footlights is well paid for it, but all the same, it
gives