At intervals, not wishing to stare, Ruth glanced around the room. Having once seen the woman, one could not fail to recognise her house, for it suited her. The floors were hardwood, highly polished, and partly covered with rare Oriental rugs. The walls were a soft, dark green, bearing no disfiguring design, and the windows were draped with net, edged with Duchesse lace. Miss Hathaway's curtains hung straight to the floor, but Miss Ainslie's were tied back with white cord. The furniture was colonial mahogany, unspoiled by varnish, and rubbed until it shone. “You have a beautiful home,” said Ruth, during a pause. “Yes,” she replied, “I like it.” “You have a great many beautiful things.” “Yes,” she answered softly, “they were given to me by a--a friend.” “She must have had a great many,” observed Ruth, admiring one of the rugs. A delicate pink suffused Miss Ainslie's face. “My friend,” she said, with quiet dignity, “is a seafaring gentleman.” That explained the rugs, Ruth thought, and the vase, of finest Cloisonne, which stood upon the mantel-shelf. It accounted also for the bertha of Mechlin lace, which was fastened to Miss Ainslie's gown, of lavender cashmere, by a large amethyst inlaid with gold and surrounded by baroque pearls. For some little time, they talked of Miss Hathaway and her travels. “I told her she was too old to go,” said Miss Ainslie,. smiling, “but she assured me that she could take care of herself, and I think she can. Even if she couldn't, she is perfectly safe. These 'personally conducted' parties are by far the best, if one goes alone, for the first time.” Ruth knew that, but she was surprised, nevertheless. “Won't you tell me about my aunt, Miss Ainslie?” she asked. “You know I've never seen her.” “Why, yes, of course I will! Where shall I begin?” “At the beginning,” answered Ruth, with a little laugh. “The beginning is very far away, deary,” said Miss Ainslie, and Ruth fancied she heard a sigh. “She came here long before I did, and we were girls together. She lived in the old house at the top of the hill, with her father and mother, and I lived here with mine. We were very intimate for a long time, and then we had a quarrel, about something that was so silly and foolish that I cannot even remember what it was. For five years--no, for almost six, we passed each other like strangers, because each was too proud and stubborn to yield. But death, and trouble, brought us together again.” “Who spoke first,” asked Ruth, much interested, “you or Aunt Jane?” “It was I, of course. I don't believe she would have done it. She was always stronger than I, and though I can't remember the cause of the quarrel, I can feel the hurt to my pride, even at this day.”