“Mr. Winfield—he's going to be on the same paper with me in the Fall. He's here for the Summer, on account of his eyes.”
Miss Ainslie was bending over the lavender.
“It is a very common name, is it not?” she asked.
“Yes, quite common,” answered Ruth, absently, taking the roses out of the box.
“You must bring him to see me some time, dear; I should like to know him.”
“Thank you, Miss Ainslie, I will.”
They stood at the gate together, and Ruth put a half blown rose into her hand. “I wouldn't give it to anybody but you,” she said, half playfully, and then Miss Ainslie knew her secret. She put her hand on Ruth's arm and looked down into her face, as if there was something she must say.
“I don't forget the light, Miss Ainslie.”
“I know,” she breathed, in answer. She looked long and searchingly into Ruth's eyes, then whispered brokenly, “God bless you, dear. Good bye!”