[Illustration]

THE OLD BROWN HOUSE


It was very old, low-roofed, and weather-beaten, standing quite a little
stretch from the road, and you might have supposed it deserted but for
the thin column of smoke that wound slowly above the roof, so desolate
did it look.

But it was inhabited, and could you have pushed aside the creaking door,
you might have seen an old woman, wrinkled and gray, sitting by the
silent hearth, stirring the dull fire, or looking absently from the
window.

It was Aunt Ruth Jones, as the neighbors called her, of whom little was
known, except that she was a queer old woman--a sort of hermit, living
all alone in the neglected old house. It had come into her possession,
with a small farm adjoining, by the death of her parents some thirty
years before.

At first the neighbors were curious to see the new occupant; they found
a tall, spare woman, then about thirty-four years of age, little given
to gossip, shy, and cold. Some affirmed that she was proud, and others
said that her life had been one of disappointment. But none had
succeeded in drawing out her story, and gradually the old brown house
and its occupant were left to themselves.