“I'm going to show it to you some day,” she said, with a little quiver in her voice, “and some other day, when I can't wear it any more, you shall have some of it for your own.” “Don't, Miss Ainslie,” cried Ruth, the quick tears coming to her eyes, “I don't want any lace--I want you!” “I know,” she answered, but there was a far-away look in her eyes, and something in her voice that sounded like a farewell. “Miss Thorne,” called Joe from the gate, “here's a package for yer. It come on the train.” He waited until Ruth went to him and seemed disappointed when she turned back into the garden. “Say,” he shouted, “is Hepsey to home?” Ruth was busy with the string and did not hear. “Oh, look!” she exclaimed, “what roses!” “They're beautiful, deary. I do not think I have ever seen such large ones. Do you know what they are?” “American Beauties--they're from Mr. Winfield. He knows I love them.” Miss Ainslie started violently. “From whom, dear?” she asked, in a strange tone. “Mr. Winfield--he's going to be on the same paper with me in the Fall. He's here for the Summer, on account of his eyes.” Miss Ainslie was bending over the lavender. “It is a very common name, is it not?” she asked. “Yes, quite common,” answered Ruth, absently, taking the roses out of the box. “You must bring him to see me some time, dear; I should like to know him.” “Thank you, Miss Ainslie, I will.” They stood at the gate together, and Ruth put a half blown rose into her hand. “I wouldn't give it to anybody but you,” she said, half playfully, and then Miss Ainslie knew her secret. She put her hand on Ruth's arm and looked down into her face, as if there was something she must say. “I don't forget the light, Miss Ainslie.” “I know,” she breathed, in answer. She looked long and searchingly into Ruth's eyes, then whispered brokenly, “God bless you, dear. Good bye!” XI. The Rose of all the World “He didn't forget me! He didn't forget me!” Ruth's heart sang in time with her step as she went home. Late afternoon flooded all the earth with gold, and from the other side of the hill came the gentle music of the sea. The doors were open, but there was no trace of Hepsey. She put the roses in her water pitcher, and locked her door upon them as one hides a sacred joy. She went out again, her heart swelling like the throat of a singing bird, and walked to the brow of the cliff, with every sense keenly alive. Upon the surface of the ocean lay that deep, translucent blue which only Tadema has dared to paint. “I must go down,” she murmured.