Miss Ainslie

As she walked through the village, stopping to look at the display of
merchandise in the window of the single shop, which was also post-office
and grocery, she attracted a great deal of respectful attention, for,
in this community, strangers were an event. Ruth reflected that the
shop had only to grow to about fifty times its present size in order to
become a full-fledged department store and bring upon the town the rank
and dignity of a metropolis.

When she turned her face homeward, she had reached the foot of the hill
before she realised that the first long walk over country roads was hard
for one accustomed to city pavements. A broad, flat stone offered
an inviting resting-place, and she sat down, in the shadow of Miss
Ainslie's hedge, hoping Joe would pass in time to take her to the top
of the hill. The hedge was high and except for the gate the garden was
secluded.

"I seem to get more tired every minute," she thought. "I wonder if I've
got the rheumatism."

She scanned the horizon eagerly for the dilapidated conveyance which she
had once both feared and scorned. No sound could have been more welcome
than the rumble of those creaking wheels, nor any sight more pleasing
than the conflicting expressions in "Mamie's" single useful eye. She sat
there a long time, waiting for deliverance, but it did not come.

"I'll get an alpenstock," she said to herself, as she rose, wearily, and
tried to summon courage to start. Then the gate clicked softly and the
sweetest voice in the world said: "My dear, you are tired--won't you
come in?"