She blessed the legacy which had fallen into Jane Hathaway's lap and led her, at fifty-five, to join a “personally conducted” party to the Old World. Ruth had always had a dim yearning for foreign travel, but just now she felt no latent injustice, such as had often rankled in her soul when her friends went and she remained at home.
Thinking she heard Hepsey in the hall, and not caring to arouse further suspicion, she put out her light and sat by the window, with the shutters wide open.
Far down the hill, where the road became level again, and on the left as she looked toward the village, was the white house, surrounded by a garden and a hedge, which she supposed was Miss Ainslie's. A timid chirp came from the grass, and the faint, sweet smell of growing things floated in through the open window at the other end of the room.
A train from the city sounded a warning whistle as it approached the station, and then a light shone on the grass in front of Miss Ainslie's house. It was a little gleam, evidently from a candle.
“So she's keeping a lighthouse, too,” thought Ruth. The train pulled out of the station and half an hour afterward the light disappeared.
She meditated upon the general subject of illumination while she got ready for bed, but as soon as her head touched the pillow she lost consciousness and knew no more until the morning light crept into her room.
II. The Attic
The maid sat in the kitchen, wondering why Miss Thorne did not come down. It was almost seven o'clock, and Miss Hathaway's breakfast hour was half past six. Hepsey did not frame the thought, but she had a vague impression that the guest was lazy.
Yet she was grateful for the new interest which had come into her monotonous life. Affairs moved like clock work at Miss Hathaway's—breakfast at half past six, dinner at one, and supper at half past five. Each day was also set apart by its regular duties, from the washing on Monday to the baking on Saturday.