dear," she explained to Ruth, "for
I don't want people to think I'm crazy." Ruth caught her breath as she
entered the room, for rare tapestries hung on the walls and priceless
rugs lay on the floor. The furniture, like that downstairs, was colonial
mahogany, highly polished, with here and there a chair or table of
foreign workmanship. There was a cabinet, filled with rare china, a
marquetry table, and a chair of teakwood, inlaid with mother of pearl.
In one corner of the room was a large chest of sandal wood, inlaid with
pearl and partly covered by a wonderful antique rug.

The world had seemingly given up its beauty to adorn Miss Ainslie's
room. She had pottery from Mexico, China and Japan; strange things from
Egypt and the Nile, and all the Oriental splendour of India and
Persia. Ruth wisely asked no questions, but once, as before, she said
hesitating; "they were given to me by a--a friend."

After much pleading on Ruth's part, Winfield was allowed to come to the
sitting room. "He'll think I'm silly, dear," she said, flushing; but, on
the contrary, he shared Ruth's delight, and won Miss Ainslie's gratitude
by his appreciation of her treasures.

Day by day, the singular attraction grew between them. She loved Ruth,
but she took him unreservedly into her heart. Ruth observed, idly, that
she never called him "Mr. Winfield." At first she spoke of him as "your
friend" and afterward, when he had asked her to, she yielded, with an
adorable shyness, and called him Carl.

He, too, had eaten of the lotus and lost the desire to go back to town.
From the hilltop they could see the yellow fields and hear the soft
melody of reaping from the valley around them. He and Ruth often walked
together, but Miss Ainslie never would go with them. She stayed quietly
at home, as she had done for many years.

Every night, when the last train came from the city, she put a lighted
candle in her front window, using always the candlestick of solid
silver, covered with fretwork in intricate design. If Winfield was
there, she managed to have him and Ruth in another room. At half-past
ten, she took it away, sighing softly as she put out the light.

Ruth wondered, but said nothing, even to Winfield. The grain in
the valley was bound in sheaves, and the first colour came on the
maples--sometimes in a delicate flush, or a flash of gold, and sometimes
like a blood-red wound.

One morning, when Miss Ainslie came downstairs, Ruth was startled at
the