sense enough to do it."

"Poor child, you're tired--too tired to rest."

"Yes, I am tired," answered Ruth, the tears of nervous weakness
coming into her eyes.

"Come out into the garden."

Miss Ainslie drew a fleecy shawl over her shoulders and led her
guest outdoors. Though she kept pace with the world in many other
ways, it was an old-fashioned garden, with a sun-dial and an
arbour, and little paths, nicely kept, that led to the flower
beds and circled around them. There were no flowers as yet,
except in a bed of wild violets under a bay window, but tiny
sprigs of green were everywhere eloquent with promise, and the
lilacs were budded.

"That's a snowball bush over there," said Miss Ainslie, "and all
that corner of the garden will be full of roses in June. They're
old-fashioned roses, that I expect you wouldn't care for-blush
and cinnamon and sweet briar--but I love them all. That long row
is half peonies and half bleeding-hearts, and I have a bed of
columbines under a window on the other side of the house. The
mignonette and forget-me-nots have a place to themselves, for I
think they belong together--sweetness and memory.

"There's going to be lady-slippers over there," Miss Ainslie went
on, "and sweet william. The porch is always covered with
morning-glories--I think they're beautiful and in that large bed