ally fine and finicking accent.
"Enter, you are welcome."

Ruth entered, the door was closed, and Reuben sat down on the bank
outside to await his sweetheart's return.

"I understand," said Rachel. "You are welcome, my child. I detest rancor
in families. I can forgive and forget." As she spoke thus she led
the way into her small sitting-room. To Ruth the poor creature's
unconsciousness seemed terrible. She laid her arms about Aunt Rachel's
withered figure, and cried a little as she leaned upon her shoulder.
"There, there," said Aunt Rachel, with a note of patronage in her voice,
"compose yourself, dear child, compose yourself. I am glad to see you.
Take your own time, dear child, your own time."

At this Ruth cried afresh. It was evident that Aunt Rachel supposed her
here to perform an office of penitence; and it was all so pitiful to
the girl's heart, which, tender enough by nature, had been made soft and
more tender still by her recent talk with Reuben in the lane.

"Don't talk so. Don't speak so," she said, brokingly. "Dear aunt, read
this, and then you will know why I am here."

"Ah!" sighed Aunt Rachel, with a world of meaning. "What did I tell you,
my dear?" She took the letter from her niece's hand, kissed the charming
bearer of it casually, as if in certainty that she would soon be
comforted, and began to search for her glasses.

Ruth, understanding the old lady's error, was moved still more by it,
but emotion and tender interest were at war, and she sat in a half
frightened silence, piteously wondering what would happen. Rachel had
found her glasses, had set the letter upon the table before her, and now
drawing the candle nearer, placed the spectacles deliberately astride
upon her fine little nose, snuffed the candle, and took up the cracking
old bit of paper with an air of triumph and hope fulfilled which cut
Ruth to the heart.

The younger woman hid her face in her hands, and furtively watched the
elder through her fingers.

Rachel read but a line, and then dropping the letter stared across the
candle at Ruth, and passed a hand across her forehead, brushing her
glasses away in the act. She groped for them, polished them with an
automatic look, and began again. Ruth, too frightened even to sob, still
looked at her, and save for the rustle of the withered paper in the
withered fingers the silence was complete.

"What is this?" cried Aunt Rachel, suddenly. "Why do you bring me this?"
She was standing