“I know you have—I've often admired it.”
“I'm going to show it to you some day,” she said, with a little quiver in her voice, “and some other day, when I can't wear it any more, you shall have some of it for your own.”
“Don't, Miss Ainslie,” cried Ruth, the quick tears coming to her eyes, “I don't want any lace—I want you!”
“I know,” she answered, but there was a far-away look in her eyes, and something in her voice that sounded like a farewell.
“Miss Thorne,” called Joe from the gate, “here's a package for yer. It come on the train.”
He waited until Ruth went to him and seemed disappointed when she turned back into the garden. “Say,” he shouted, “is Hepsey to home?”
Ruth was busy with the string and did not hear. “Oh, look!” she exclaimed, “what roses!”
“They're beautiful, deary. I do not think I have ever seen such large ones. Do you know what they are?”
“American Beauties—they're from Mr. Winfield. He knows I love them.”
Miss Ainslie started violently. “From whom, dear?” she asked, in a strange tone.