When the last train came in, Miss Ainslie raised her eyes to the silver candlestick that stood on the mantel and sighed.
“Shall I put the light in the window?” asked Ruth.
It was a long time before Miss Ainslie answered.
“No, deary,” she said sadly, “never any more.”
She was trying to hide her suffering, and Ruth's heart ached for her in vain. The sound of the train died away in the distance and the firelight faded.
“Ruth,” she said, in a low voice, “I am going away.”
“Away, Miss Ainslie? Where?”
“I don't know, dear—it's where we all go—'the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.' Sometimes it's a long journey and sometimes a short one, but we all take it—alone—at the last.”
Ruth's heart throbbed violently, then stood still.
“Don't!” she cried, sharply.