The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainslie stooped to pick it up and Ruth did not see her face. “Perhaps,” she said, in a strange tone, “but I never have asked a lady the name of her friend.”
Gentle as it was, Ruth felt the rebuke keenly. An apology was on her lips, but only her flushed cheeks betrayed any emotion. Miss Ainslie's face was pale, and there was unmistakable resentment in her eyes.
“I must go,” Ruth said, after an awkward silence, and in an instant Miss Ainslie was herself again.
“No-you mustn't go, deary. You haven't seen my garden yet. I have planted all the seeds and some of them are coming up. Isn't it beautiful to see things grow?”
“It is indeed,” Ruth assented, forgetting the momentary awkwardness, “and I have lived for a long time where I have seen nothing grow but car tracks and high buildings. May I come again and see your garden?”
“I shall be so glad to have you,” replied Miss Ainslie, with a quaint stateliness. “I have enjoyed your visit so much and I hope you will come again very soon.”
“Thank you—I will.”
Her hostess had opened the door for her, but Ruth stood in the hall, waiting, in obedience to some strange impulse. Then she stepped outside, but something held her back-something that lay unspoken between them. Those unfathomable eyes were fixed upon her, questioning, pleading, and searching her inmost soul.
Ruth looked at her, wondering, and striving to answer the mute appeal. Then Miss Ainslie laid her hand upon her arm. “My dear,” she asked, earnestly, “do you light the lamp in the attic window every night?”
“Yes, I do, Miss Ainslie,” she answered, quickly.