She relapsed unconsciously into imitation of Miss Ainslie's
speech. In the few words, softened, and betraying a quaint
stateliness, Ruth caught a glimpse of an old-fashioned
gentlewoman, reserved and yet gracious.

She folded her napkin, saying: "You make the best biscuits I ever
tasted, Hepsey." The girl smiled, but made no reply.

"What makes you think Miss Ainslie has anything to do with the
light?" she inquired after a little.

"'Cause there wasn't no light in that winder when I first
come--leastways, not as I know of--and after I'd been here a week
or so, Miss Hathaway, she come back from there one day looking
kinder strange. She didn't say much; but the next mornin' she
goes down to town and buys that lamp, and she saws off them table
legs herself. Every night since, that light's been a-goin', and
she puts it out herself every mornin' before she comes
downstairs."

"Perhaps she and Miss Ainslie had been talking of shipwreck, and
she thought she would have a little lighthouse of her own," Miss
Thorne suggested, when the silence became oppressive.

"P'raps so," rejoined Hepsey. She had become stolid again.

Ruth pushed her chair back and stood at the dining-room window a
moment, looking out into the yard. The valley was in shadow, but
the last light still lingered on the hill. "What's that, Hepsey?"
she asked.