A Guest

"Yes'm."

Hepsey shuffled downstairs with comfortable leisure, opened the door
with aggravating slowness, then said, in a harsh tone that reached the
upper rooms distinctly: "Miss Thorne, she says that you can come in and
set in the parlour till she comes down."

"Thank you," responded a masculine voice, in quiet amusement; "Miss
Thorne is kind--and generous."

Ruth's cheeks flushed hotly. "I don't know whether Miss Thorne will go
down or not," she said to herself. "It's probably a book-agent."

She rocked pensively for a minute or two, wondering what would happen if
she did not go down. There was no sound from the parlour save a subdued
clearing of the throat. "He's getting ready to speak his piece," she
thought, "and he might as well do it now as to wait for me."

Though she loathed Mr. Carl Winfield and his errand, whatever it might
prove to be, she stopped before her mirror long enough to give a pat
or two to her rebellious hair. On the way down she determined to be
dignified, icy, and crushing.

A tall young fellow with a pleasant face rose to greet her as she
entered the room. "Miss Thorne?" he inquired.

"Yes--please sit down. I am very sorry that my maid should have been so
inhospitable." It was not what she had meant to say.

"Oh, that's all right," he replied, easily; "I quite enjoyed it. I must
ask your pardon for coming to you in this abrupt way, but Carlton gave
me a letter to you, and I've lost it." Carlton was the managing editor,
and vague expectations of a summons to the office came into Ruth's mind.