a metropolis.

When she turned her face homeward, she had reached the foot of
the hill before she realised that the first long walk over
country roads was hard for one accustomed to city pavements. A
broad, flat stone offered an inviting resting-place, and she sat
down, in the shadow of Miss Ainslie's hedge, hoping Joe would
pass in time to take her to the top of the hill. The hedge was
high and except for the gate the garden was secluded.

"I seem to get more tired every minute," she thought. "I wonder
if I've got the rheumatism."

She scanned the horizon eagerly for the dilapidated conveyance
which she had once both feared and scorned. No sound could have
been more welcome than the rumble of those creaking wheels, nor
any sight more

pleasing than the conflicting expressions in "Mamie's" single
useful eye. She sat there a long time, waiting for deliverance,
but it did not come.

"I'll get an alpenstock," she said to herself, as she rose,
wearily, and tried to summon courage to start. Then the gate
clicked softly and the sweetest voice in the world said: "My
dear, you are tired--won't you come in?"

Turning, she saw Miss Ainslie, smiling graciously. In a moment
she had explained that she was Miss Hathaway's niece and that she
would be very glad to come in for a few moments.