her, questioning, pleading, and searching her inmost soul.

Ruth looked at her, wondering, and striving to answer the mute
appeal. Then Miss Ainslie laid her hand upon her arm. "My dear,"
she asked, earnestly, "do you light the lamp in the attic window
every night?"

"Yes, I do, Miss Ainslie," she answered, quickly.

The older woman caught her breath, as if in relief, and then the
deep crimson flooded her face.

"Hepsey told me and Aunt Jane left a letter about it," Ruth
continued, hastily, "and I am very glad to do it. It would be
dreadful to have a ship wrecked, almost at our door."

"Yes," sighed Miss Ainslie, her colour receding, "I have often
thought of 'those who go down to the sea in ships.' It is so
terrible, and sometimes, when I hear the surf beating against the
cliff, I--I am afraid."

Ruth climbed the hill, interested, happy, yet deeply disturbed.
Miss Ainslie's beautiful, changing face seemed to follow her, and
the exquisite scent of the lavender, which had filled the rooms,
clung to her senses like a benediction.

Hepsey was right, and unquestionably Miss Ainslie had something
to do with the light; but no deep meaning lay behind it--so much
was certain. She had lived alone so long that she had grown to
have a great fear of shipwreck, possibly on account of her