r nearly forty years;
and they have been years of unutterable peace and earthly happiness! And
now, thou wilt have some tea!'

Stephen left the mill that afternoon with a warmth of heart that she had
been a stranger to for many a day. The two women had accepted each other
simply. 'I am called Ruth,' said the Silver Lady. 'And I am Stephen,'
said the Countess de Lannoy in reply. And that was all; neither had any
clue to the other's identity. Stephen felt that some story lay behind
that calm, sweet personality; much sorrow goes to the making of fearless
quietude. The Quaker lady moved so little out of her own environment
that she did not even suspect the identity of her visitor. All that she
knew of change was a notice from the solicitor to the estate that, as the
headship had lapsed into another branch of the possessing family, she
must be prepared, if necessary, to vacate her tenancy, which was one 'at
will.'

It was not long before Stephen availed herself of the permission to come
again. This time she made up her mind to tell who she was, lest the
concealment of her identity might lead to awkwardness. At that meeting
friendship became union.

The natures of the two women expanded to each other; and after a very few
meetings there was established between them a rare confidence. Even the
personal austerity of Quakerdom, or the state and estate of the peeress,
could not come between. Their friendship seemed to be for the life of
one. To the other it would be a memory.

The Silver Lady never left the chosen routine of her own life. Whatever
was the reason of her giving up the world, she kept it to herself; and
Stephen respected her reticence as much as she did her confidence.

It had become a habit, early in their friendship, for Stephen to ride or
walk over to the windmill in the dusk of the evening when she felt
especially lonely. On one such occasion she pushed open the outer door,
which was never shut, and took her way up the stone stair. She knew she
would find her friend seated in the window with hands folded on lap,
looking out into the silent dusk with that absorbed understanding of
things which is holier than reverence, and spiritually more active than
conscious prayer.

She tapped the door lightly, and stepped into the room.

With a glad exclamation, which coming through her habitual sedateness
showed how much she loved the young girl, Sister Ruth started to her
feet. There was something