The Attic

The maid sat in the kitchen, wondering why Miss Thorne did not come
down. It was almost seven o'clock, and Miss Hathaway's breakfast hour
was half past six. Hepsey did not frame the thought, but she had a vague
impression that the guest was lazy.

Yet she was grateful for the new interest which had come into
her monotonous life. Affairs moved like clock work at Miss
Hathaway's--breakfast at half past six, dinner at one, and supper at
half past five. Each day was also set apart by its regular duties, from
the washing on Monday to the baking on Saturday.

Now it was possible that there might be a change. Miss Thorne seemed
fully capable of setting the house topsy-turvy--and Miss Hathaway's last
injunction had been: "Now, Hepsey, you mind Miss Thorne. If I hear that
you don't, you'll lose your place."

The young woman who slumbered peacefully upstairs, while the rest of the
world was awake, had, from the beginning, aroused admiration in
Hepsey's breast. It was a reluctant, rebellious feeling, mingled with an
indefinite fear, but it was admiration none the less.

During the greater part of a wondering, wakeful night, the excited
Hepsey had seen Miss Thorne as plainly as when she first entered the
house. The tall, straight, graceful figure was familiar by this time,
and the subdued silken rustle of her skirts was a wonted sound. Ruth's
face, naturally mobile, had been schooled into a certain reserve, but
her deep, dark eyes were eloquent, and always would be. Hepsey wondered
at the opaque whiteness of her skin and the baffling arrangement of her
hair. The young women of the village had rosy cheeks, but Miss Thorne's
face was colourless, except for her lips.