“Oh, my hapless chafing-dish!” groaned Ruth.
“Chafing-dish?” repeated Winfield, brightening visibly. “And I eating sole leather and fried potatoes? From this hour I am your slave—you can't lose me now!
“Go on,” she commanded.
“I can't—the flow of my eloquence is stopped by rapturous anticipation. Suffice it to say that the people of this enterprising city are well up in the ways of the wicked world, for the storekeeper takes The New York Weekly and the 'Widder' Pendleton subscribes for The Fireside Companion. The back numbers, which are not worn out, are the circulating library of the village. It's no use, Miss Thorne—you might stand on your hilltop and proclaim your innocence until you were hoarse, and it would be utterly without effect. Your status is definitely settled.”
“How about Aunt Jane?” she inquired. “Does my relationship count for naught?”
“Now you are rapidly approaching the centre of things,” replied the young man. “Miss Hathaway is one woman in a thousand, though somewhat eccentric. She is the venerated pillar of the community and a constant attendant it church, which it seems you are not. Also, if you are really her niece, where is the family resemblance? Why has she never spoken of you? Why have you never been here before? Why are her letters to you sealed with red wax, bought especially for the purpose? Why does she go away before you come? Lady Gwendolen Hetherington,” he demanded, with melodramatic fervour, “answer me these things if you can!”
“I'm tired,” she complained.
“Delicate compliment,” observed Winfield, apparently to himself. “Here's a log across our path, Miss Thorne; let's sit down.”
The budded maples arched over the narrow path, and a wild canary, singing in the sun, hopped from bough to bough. A robin's cheery chirp came from another tree, and the clear notes of a thrush, with a mottled breast, were answered by another in the gold-green aisles beyond.
“Oh,” he said, under his breath, “isn't this great!”