As they approached the house, a brisk little man hurried out of the gate and went toward the village.
“Who's that?” asked Winfield.
“I don't know—some one who has brought something, probably. I trust she's better.”
Miss Ainslie seemed more like herself, as she moved about the house, dusting and putting the rooms in order, as was her wont. At noon she fried a bit of chicken for Ruth, but took nothing herself except a cup of tea.
“No, deary,” she said, in answer to Ruth's anxious question, “I'm all right—don't fret about me.” “Have you any pain, Miss Ainslie?”
“No, of course I haven't, you foolish child!”
She tried to smile, but her white lips quivered pitifully.
In the afternoon, when she said she was cold, Ruth made a fire in the open fireplace, and wheeled Miss Ainslie's favourite chair in front of it. She drew her shawl about her shoulders and leaned back.
“I'm so comfortable, now,” she said drowsily; “I think I'm going to sleep, dear.”
Ruth sat by her, pretending to read, but, in reality, watching her closely, until the deep, regular breathing assured her that she was asleep. She went out into the garden and found Winfield in the arbour.