“I haven't had a chance to talk,” she explained. “You've done a monologue ever since we left the house, and I listened, as becomes inferior and subordinate woman. I have never seen my venerated kinswoman, and I don't see how she happened to think of me. Nevertheless, when she wrote, asking me to take charge of her house while she went to Europe, I gladly consented, sight unseen. When I came, she was gone. I do not deny the short skirt and heavy shoes, the criticism of boiled coffee, nor the disdain of breakfast pie. As far is I know, Aunt Jane is my only living relative.” “That's good,” he said, cheerfully; “I'm shy even of an aunt. Why shouldn't the orphans console one another?” “They should,” admitted Ruth; “and you are doing your share nobly.” “Permit me to return the compliment. Honestly, Miss Thorne,” he continued, seriously, “you have no idea how much I appreciate your being here. When I first realised what it meant to be deprived of books and papers for six months at a stretch, it seemed as if I should go mad. Still, I suppose six months isn't as bad as forever, and I was given a choice. I don't want to bore you, but if you will let me come occasionally, I shall be very glad. I'm going to try to be patient, too, if you'll help me--patience isn't my long suit.” “Indeed I will help you,” answered Ruth, impulsively; “I know how hard it must be.” “I'm not begging for your sympathy, though I assure you it is welcome.” He polished the tinted glasses with a bit of chamois.. and his eyes filled with the mist of weakness before he put them on again. “So you've never seen your aunt,” he said. “No--that pleasure is still in store for me.” “They say down at the 'Widder's' that she's a woman with a romance.” “Tell me about it!” exclaimed Ruth, eagerly. “Little girls mustn't ask questions,” he remarked, patronisingly, and in his most irritating manner. “Besides, I don't know. If the 'Widder' knows, she won't tell, so it's fair to suppose she doesn't. Your relation does queer things in the attic, and every Spring, she has an annual weep. I suppose it's the house cleaning, for the rest of the year she's dry-eyed and calm.” “I weep very frequently,” commented Ruth. “'Tears, idle tears--I wonder what they mean.'” “They don't mean much, in the case of a woman.” “I've never seen many of'em,” returned Winfield, “and I don't want to. Even stage tears go against the grain with me. I know that the lady who sobs behind the footlights is well paid for it, but all the same, it gives me the creeps.” “It's nothing serious--really it isn't,” she explained. “It's merely a safety valve. If women couldn't cry, they'd explode.” “I always supposed tears were signs of sorrow,” he said. “Far from it,” laughed Ruth. “When I get very angry, I cry, and then I got angrier because I'm crying and cry harder.” “That opens up a fearful possibility. What would happen if you kept getting angrier because you were crying and crying harder because you got angrier?”