Half past six had seemed an unearthly hour for breakfast, and yet more than once Ruth had been downstairs at five o'clock, before Hepsey was stiring. There was no rest to be had anywhere, even after a long walk through the woods and fields. Inaction became irritation, and each day was filled with a thousand unbearable annoyances. She was fretful, moody, and restless, always wishing herself back in the office, yet knowing that she could not do good work, even if she were there.
She sat in her room one afternoon, frankly miserable, when Hepsey stalked in, unannounced, and gave her a card.
“Mr. Carl Winfield!” Ruth repeated aloud. “Some one to see me, Hepsey?” she asked, in astonishment.
“Yes'm. He's a-waitin' on the piazzer.”
“Didn't you ask him to come in?”
“No'm. Miss Hathaway, she don't want no strangers in her house.”
“Go down immediately,” commanded Ruth, sternly, “ask him into the parlour, and say that Miss Thorne will be down in a few moments.”
“Yes'm.”
Hepsey shuffled downstairs with comfortable leisure, opened the door with aggravating slowness, then said, in a harsh tone that reached the upper rooms distinctly: “Miss Thorne, she says that you can come in and set in the parlour till she comes down.”
“Thank you,” responded a masculine voice, in quiet amusement; “Miss Thorne is kind—and generous.”