Miss Ainslie

Ruth began to feel a lively interest in her Aunt Jane, and to regret
that she had not arrived in time to make her acquaintance. She knew that
Miss Hathaway was three or four years younger than Mrs. Thorne would
have been, had she lived, and that a legacy had recently come to her
from an old friend, but that was all, aside from the discoveries in the
attic.

She contemplated the crayon portraits in the parlour and hoped she was
not related to any of them. In the family album she found no woman whom
she would have liked for an aunt, but was determined to know the worst.

"Is Miss Hathaway's picture here, Hepsey?" she asked.

"No'm. Miss Hathaway, she wouldn't have her picter in the parlour,
nohow. Some folks does, but Miss Hathaway says't'aint modest."

"I think she's right, Hepsey," laughed Ruth, "though I never thought of
it in just that way. I'll have to wait until she comes home."

In the afternoon she donned the short skirt and heavy shoes of her
"office rig," and started down hill to explore the village. It was a
day to tempt one out of doors,--cool and bright, with that indefinable
crispness which belongs to Spring.

The hill rose sheer from the highlands, which sloped to the river on the
left, as she went down, and on the right to the forest. A side path into
the woods made her hesitate for a moment, but she went straight on.

It was the usual small town, which nestles at the foot of a hill and
eventually climbs over it, through the enterprise of its wealthier
residents, but, save for Miss Hathaway's house, the enterprise had not,
as yet, become evident. At the foot of the hill, on the left, was Miss
Ainslie's house and garden, and directly opposite, with the width of the
hill between them, was a brown house, with a lawn, but no garden except
that devoted to vegetables.