Then ribbons, handkerchiefs, stocks, gloves, and collars were unceremoniously hustled back into the drawer, for Miss Thorne was at odds with herself and the world. She was angry with Hepsey, she hated Winfield, and despised herself. She picked up a scrap of paper which lay on a glove, and caught a glimpse of unfamiliar penmanship. It was apparently the end of a letter, and the rest of it was gone. “At Gibraltar for some time,” she read, “keeping a shop, but will probably be found now in some small town on the coast of Italy. Very truly yours.” The signature had been torn off. “Why, that isn't mine,” she thought. “It must be something of Aunt Jane's.” Another bit of paper lay near it, and, unthinkingly, she read a letter which was not meant for her. “I thank you from my heart,” it began, “for understanding me. I could not put it into words, but I believe you know. Perhaps you think it is useless--that it is too late; but if it was, I would know. You have been very kind, and I thank you.” There was neither date, address, nor signature. The message stood alone, as absolutely as some far-off star whose light could not be seen from the earth. Some one understood it--two understood it--the writer and Aunt Jane. Ruth put it back under the paper, with the scrap of the other letter, and closed the drawer with a bang. “I hope,” she said to herself, “that while I stay here I'll be mercifully preserved from finding things that are none of my business.” Then, as in a lightning flash, for an instant she saw clearly. Fate plays us many tricks and assumes strange forms, but Ruth knew that some day, on that New England hill, she would come face to face with a destiny that had been ordained from the beginning. Something waited for her there--some great change. She trembled at the thought, but was not afraid. V. The Rumours of the Valley “Miss Thorne,” said Hepsey, from the doorway of Ruth's room, “that feller's here again.” There was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and Ruth herself was somewhat surprised, for she had not expected another call so soon. “He's a-settin' 'n in the parlour,” continued Hepsey, “when he ain't a-walkin' around it and wearin' out the carpet. I didn't come up when he first come, on account of my pie crust bein' all ready to put in the oven.” “How long has he been here?” asked Ruth, dabbing a bit of powder on her nose and selecting a fresh collar. “Oh, p'raps half an hour.” “That isn't right, Hepsey; when anyone comes you must tell me immediately. Never mind the pie crust next time.” Ruth endeavoured to speak kindly, but she was irritated at the necessity of making another apology. When she went down, Winfield dismissed her excuses with a comprehensive wave of the hand. “I always have to wait when I go to call on a girl,” he said; “it's one of the most charming vagaries of the ever-feminine. I used to think that perhaps I wasn't popular, but every fellow I know has the same experience.”