Ruth tried to get her to go out for a drive, but she refused. “No, deary,” she said, smiling, “I've never been away, and I'm too old to begin now.” Neighbours, hearing of her illness, came to offer sympathy and help, but she would see none of them—not even Aunt Jane.
One night, she sat at the head of the table as usual; for she would not surrender her place as hostess, even though she ate nothing, and afterward a great weakness came upon her. “I don't know how I'll ever get upstairs,” she said, frightened; “it seems such a long way!”
Winfield took her in his arms and carried her up, as gently and easily as if she had been a child. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright when he put her down. “I never thought it would be so easy,” she said, in answer to his question. “You'll stay with me, won't you, Carl? I don't want you to go away.”
“I'll stay as long as you want me, Miss Ainslie, and Ruth will, too. We couldn't do too much for you.”
That night, as they sat in front of the fire, while Miss Ainslie slept upstairs, Ruth told him what she had said about leaving him the house and the little income and giving her the beautiful things in the house.
“Bless her sweet heart,” he said tenderly, “we don't want her things—we'd rather have her.”
“Indeed we would,” she answered quickly.
Until the middle of September she went back and forth from her own room to the sitting-room with comparative ease. They took turns bringing dainties to tempt her appetite, but, though she ate a little of everything and praised it warmly, especially if Ruth had made it, she did it, evidently, only out of consideration for them.
She read a little, talked a little, and slept a great deal. One day she asked Carl to pull the heavy sandal wood chest over near her chair, and give her the key, which hung behind a picture.
“Will you please go away now,” she asked, with a winning smile, “for just a little while?”