was that mystical moment which no one may place--the turning of
night to day. Far down the hill, ghostly, but not forbidding, was
Miss Ainslie's house, the garden around it lying whitely beneath
the dews of dawn, and up in the attic window the light still
shone, like unfounded hope in a woman's soul, harking across
distant seas of misunderstanding and gloom, with its pitiful "All
Hail!"



III. Miss Ainslie

Ruth began to feel a lively interest in her Aunt Jane, and to
regret that she had not arrived in time to make her acquaintance.
She knew that Miss Hathaway was three or four years younger than
Mrs. Thorne would have been, had she lived, and that a legacy had
recently come to her from an old friend, but that was all, aside
from the discoveries in the attic.

She contemplated the crayon portraits in the parlour and hoped
she was not related to any of them. In the family album she found
no woman whom she would have liked for an aunt, but was
determined to know the worst.

"Is Miss Hathaway's picture here, Hepsey?" she asked.

"No'm. Miss Hathaway, she wouldn't have her picter in the
parlour, nohow. Some folks does, but Miss Hathaway says't'aint
modest."