familiar by this time, and the subdued silken rustle of her
skirts was a wonted sound. Ruth's face, naturally mobile, had
been schooled into a certain reserve, but her deep, dark eyes
were eloquent, and always would be. Hepsey wondered at the opaque
whiteness of her skin and the baffling arrangement of her hair.
The young women of the village had rosy cheeks, but Miss Thorne's
face was colourless, except for her lips.

It was very strange, Hepsey thought, for Miss Hathaway to sail
before her niece came, if, indeed, Miss Thorne was her niece.
There was a mystery in the house on the hilltop, which she had
tried in vain to fathom. Foreign letters came frequently, no two
of them from the same person, and the lamp in the attic window
had burned steadily every night for five years. Otherwise,
everything was explainable and sane.

Still, Miss Thorne did not seem even remotely related to her
aunt, and Hepsey had her doubts. Moreover, the guest had an
uncanny gift which amounted to second sight. How did she know
that all of Hepsey's books had yellow covers? Miss Hathaway could
not have told her in the letter, for the mistress was not awire
of her maid's literary tendencies.

It was half past seven, but no sound came from upstairs. She
replenished the fire and resumed meditation. Whatever Miss Thorne
might prove to be, she was decidedly interesting. It wis pleasant
to watch her, to feel the subtle refinement of all her
belongings, and to wonder what was going to happen next. Perhaps
Miss Thorne would take her back to the city, as her maid, when
Miss Hathaway came home, for, in the books, such things