Ruth entered at the gate, stole on tiptoe along the gravelled path, knocked and listened. The whole front of the little house was in darkness, but by-and-by even Reuben from his post behind the hedge heard the faint noise made by slippered feet in the oil-clothed hall. “Who's there?” said' a voice from within.
“Dear aunt,” Ruth answered, “let me in. Do, please, let me in. I want to speak to you.”
Reuben, listening, heard the sound of the jarring chain, and the door was opened. He peeped through the interstices of the hedge, and saw Miss Blythe smiling in the light of the candle she carried in her left hand.
“Dear niece,” said Rachel, with an unusually 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.