A Guest

As the days went by, Ruth had the inevitable reaction. At first the
country brought balm to her tired nerves, and she rested luxuriously,
but she had not been at Miss Hathaway's a fortnight before she bitterly
regretted the step she had taken.

Still there was no going back, for she had given her word, and must stay
there until October. The months before her stretched out into a dreary
waste. She thought of Miss Ainslie gratefully, as a redeeming feature,
but she knew that it was impossible to spend all of her time in the
house--it the foot of the hill.

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."