By Humble Means

As lightly as a rose petal upon the shimmering surface of a stream,
Summer was drifting away, but whither, no one seemed to care. The odour
of printer's ink upon the morning paper no longer aroused vain longings
in Winfield's breast, and Ruth had all but forgotten her former
connection with the newspaper world.

By degrees, Winfield had arranged a routine which seemed admirable.
Until luncheon time, he was with Ruth and, usually, out of doors,
according to prescription. In the afternoon, he went up again, sometimes
staying to dinner, and, always, he spent his evenings there.

"Why don't you ask me to have my trunk sent up here?" he asked Ruth, one
day.

"I hadn't thought of it," she laughed. "I suppose it hasn't seemed
necessary."

"Miss Hathaway would be pleased, wouldn't she, if she knew she had two
guests instead of one?"

"Undoubtedly; how could she help it?"

"When do you expect her to return?"

"I don't know--I haven't heard a word from her. Sometimes I feel a
little anxious about her." Ruth would have been much concerned for her
relative's safety, had she known that the eccentric lady had severed
herself from the excursion and gone boldly into Italy, unattended, and
with no knowledge of the language.

Hepsey inquired daily for news of Miss Hathaway, but no tidings were
forthcoming. She amused herself in her leisure moments by picturing all
sorts of disasters in which her mistress was doubtless engulfed, and in
speculating upon the tie between Miss Thorne and Mr. Winfield.