ven
for an instant, that Joe and Hepsey had not pondered long and earnestly
upon the subject of the light in the attic window, yet the argument
was unanswerable. The matter had long since lost its interest for
Ruth--perhaps because she was too happy to care.

Winfield had easily acquired the habit of bringing her his morning
papers, and, after the first embarrassment, Ruth settled down to it in
a businesslike way. Usually, she sat in Miss Hathaway's sewing chair,
under a tree a little way from the house, that she might at the same
time have a general supervision of her domain, while Winfield stretched
himself upon the grass at her feet. When the sun was bright, he wore his
dark glasses, thereby gaining an unfair advantage.

After breakfast, which was a movable feast at the "Widder's," he went
after his mail and brought hers also. When he reached the top of the
hill, she was always waiting for him.

"This devotion is very pleasing," he remarked, one morning.

"Some people are easily pleased," she retorted. "I dislike to spoil your
pleasure, but my stern regard for facts compels me to say that it is not
Mr. Winfield I wait for, but the postman."

"Then I'll always be your postman, for I 'do admire' to be waited for,
as they have it at the 'Widder's.' Of course, it's more or less of an
expense--this morning, for instance, I had to dig up two cents to get
one of your valuable manuscripts out of the clutches of an interested
government."

"That's nothing," she assured him, "for I save you a quarter every day,
by taking Joe's place as reader to Your Highness, not to mention the
high tariff on the Sunday papers. Besides, the manuscripts are all in
now."

"I'm glad to hear that," he replied, sitting down on the piazza. "Do
you know, Miss Thorne, I think there's a great deal of joyous excitement
attached to the pursuit of literature. You send out a story, fondly
believing that it is destined to make you famous. Time goes on, and
you hear nothing from it. You can see your name 'featured' on the
advertisements of the magazine, and hear the heavy tread of the fevered
mob, on the way to buy up the edition. In the roseate glow of your
fancy, you can see not only your cheque, but the things you're going
to buy with it. Perhaps you tell your friends, cautiously, that you're
writing for such and such a magazine. Before your joy evaporates, the
thing comes back from the Dead Letter Office, because you hadn't put
on enough postag