Suddenly there was a snort of terror from one of the horses, and the carriage stopped abruptly. Ruth clutched her suit case and umbrella, instantly prepared for the worst; but Joe reassured her. “Now don't you go and get skeered, Miss,” he said, kindly; “'taint nothin' in the world but a rabbit. Mamie can't never get used to rabbits, someways.” He indicated one of the horses--a high, raw-boned animal, sketched on a generous plan, whose ribs and joints protruded, and whose rough white coat had been weather-worn to grey. “Hush now, Mamie,” he said; “'taint nothin'.” “Mamie” looked around inquiringly, with one ear erect and the other at an angle. A cataract partially concealed one eye, but in the other was a world of wickedness and knowledge, modified by a certain lady-like reserve. “G' long, Mamie!” Ruth laughed as the horse resumed motion in mincing, maidenly steps. “What's the other one's name?” she asked. “Him? His name's Alfred. Mamie's his mother.” Miss Thorne endeavoured to conceal her amusement and Joe was pleased because the ice was broken. “I change their names every once in a while,” he said, “'cause it makes some variety, but now I've named'em about all the names I know.” The road wound upward in its own lazy fashion, and there were trees at the left, though only one or two shaded the hill itself. As they approached the summit, a girl in a blue gingham dress and a neat white apron came out to meet them. “Come right in, Miss Thorne,” she said, “and I'll explain it to you.” Ruth descended, inwardly vowing that she would ride no more in Joe's carriage, and after giving some directions about her trunk, followed her guide indoors. The storm-beaten house was certainly entitled to the respect accorded to age. It was substantial, but unpretentious in outline, and had not been painted for a long time. The faded green shutters blended harmoniously with the greyish white background, and the piazza, which was evidently an unhappy afterthought of the architect, had two or three new shingles on its roof. “You see it's this way, Miss Thorne,” the maid began, volubly; “Miss Hathaway, she went earlier than she laid out to, on account of the folks decidin' to take a steamer that sailed beforehand--before the other one, I mean. She went in sech a hurry that she didn't have time to send you word and get an answer, but she's left a letter here for you, for she trusted to your comin'.” Miss Thorne laid her hat and jacket aside and settled herself comfortably in a rocker. The maid returned presently with a letter which Miss Hathaway had sealed with half an ounce of red wax, presumably in a laudable effort to remove temptation from the path of the red-cheeked, wholesome, farmer's daughter who stood near by with her hands on her hips. “Miss Ruth Thorne,” the letter began, “Dear Niece: