and folded in the lap of her striped silk gown. The forehead was
high, protruding slightly, the eyes rather small, and very dark,
the nose straight, and the little chin exceedingly firm and
determined. There was an expression of maidenly wistfulness
somewhere, which Ruth could not definitely locate, but there was
no hint of it in the chin.

"Poor little Aunt Jane, " said Ruth. "Life never would be easy
for her."

"No," returned Miss Ainslie, "but she would not let anyone know."

Ruth strolled over to the window, thinking that she must be
going, and Miss Ainslie still held the picture in her hand. "She
had a lover, didn't she?" asked Ruth, idly.

"I-I-think so," answered the other, unwillingly. "You remember we
quarrelled."

A young man stopped in the middle of the road, looked at Miss
Ainslie's house, and then at the brown one across the hill. From
her position in the window, Ruth saw him plainly. He hesitated a
moment, then went toward the brown house. She noted that he was a
stranger--there was no such topcoat in the village.

"Was his name Winfield?" she asked suddenly, then instantly hated
herself for the question.

The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainslie stooped to pick it
up and Ruth did not see her face. "Perhaps," she said, in a