She blessed the legacy which had fallen into Jane Hathaway's lap
and led her, at fifty-five, to join a "personally conducted"
party to the Old World. Ruth had always had a dim yearning for
foreign travel, but just now she felt no latent injustice, such
as had often rankled in her soul when her friends went and she
remained at home.

Thinking she heard Hepsey in the hall, and not caring to arouse
further suspicion, she put out her light and sat by the window,
with the shutters wide open.

Far down the hill, where the road became level again, and on the
left as she looked toward the village, was the white house,
surrounded by a garden and a hedge, which she supposed was Miss
Ainslie's. A timid chirp came from the grass, and the faint,
sweet smell of growing things floated in through the open window
at the other end of the room.

A train from the city sounded a warning whistle as it approached
the station, and then a light shone on the grass in front of Miss
Ainslie's house. It was a little gleam, evidently from a candle.

"So she's keeping a lighthouse, too," thought Ruth. The train
pulled out of the station and half an hour afterward the light
disappeared.

She meditated upon the general subject of illumination while she
got ready for bed, but as soon as her head touched the pillow she
lost consciousness and knew no more until the morning light crept
into her room.