with the dignified bearing which she chose to maintain. As she
looked, she wondered, vaguely, if she, like Aunt Jane, would grow
to a loveless old age. It seemed probable, for, at twenty-five,
The Prince had not appeared. She had her work and was happy; yet
unceasingly, behind those dark eyes, Ruth's soul kept maidenly
match for its mate.

When she turned to go downstairs, a folded newspaper on the floor
attracted her attention. It was near one of the trunks which she
had opened and must have fallen out. She picked it up, to replace
it, but it proved to be another paper dated a year later than the
first one. There was no marked paragraph, but she soon discovered
the death notice of "Abigail Winfield, nee Weatherby, aged
twenty-two." She put it into the trunk out of which she knew it
must have fallen, and stood there, thinking. Those faded letters,
hidden under Aunt Jane's wedding gown, were tempting her with
their mute secret as never before. She hesitated, took three
steps toward the cedar chest, then fled ingloriously from the
field.

Whoever Charles Winfeld was, he was free to love and marry again.
Perhaps there had been an estrangement and it was he for whom
Aunt Jane was waiting, since sometimes, out of bitterness, the
years distil forgiveness. She wondered at the nature which was
tender enough to keep the wedding gown and the pathetic little
treasures, brave enough to keep the paper, with its evidence of
falseness, and great enough to forgive.

Yet, what right had she to suppose Aunt Jane was waiting? Had she
gone abroad to seek him and win his recreant heart again? Or was