eleton behind him. He wore cheap store-clothes, and a
turn-down collar which rested upon a ready-made tie of enormous
proportions. It was a picture he had had taken in his first new
clothes soon after coming to Clayton. Ruth had found it in an old book
of Annette's.

How crude and ludicrous the awkward boy looked beside the elegant
figures on the walls about her! She leaned nearer the fire to get the
light on the face, then she smiled with a sudden rush of tenderness.

The photographer had done his worst for the figure, but even an
unskilled hand and a poor camera had not wholly obliterated the
fineness of the face. Spirit, honor, and strength were all there. The
eyes that met hers were as fine and fearless as her own, and the
honest smile that hovered on his lips seemed to be in frank amusement
at his own sorry self.

Ruth turned to see that the door was closed, then she put the picture
to her cheek, which was crimson in the firelight, and with hesitating
shyness gradually drew it to her lips and held it there.

A noise of wheels in the avenue brought her to her feet with a little
start of joy. He had come, and she was possessed of a sudden desire to
run away. But she waited, with glad little tremors thrilling her and
her heart beating high. She was sure she heard wheels. She went to the
window, and, shading her eyes, looked out. A buggy was standing at the
gate, but no one got out.

A sudden apprehension seized her, and she hurried into the hail and
opened the front door.

"Carter," she called softly out into the night--"Carter, is it you?"

There was no answer, and she came back into the hall and closed the
door. On each side of the door was a panel of leaded glass, and she
pressed her face to one of the little square panes, and peered
anxiously out. The light from the newel-post behind her emphasized the
darkness, so that she could distinguish only the dim outline of the
buggy.

Twice she touched the knob before she turned it again; then she
resolutely gathered her long white dress in her hand, and passed down
the broad stone steps. The wind blew sharply against her, and the
pavement was cold to her slippered feet.

"Carter," she called again and again--"Carter, is it you?"

At the gate her scant supply of courage failed. Some one was in the
buggy, half lying, half sitting, with his face turned from her. She
looked back to the light in the cabin, where the servants would hear
if she called. Then the tho