She still lingered, irresolute, shifting from one foot to the other. “Miss Thorne--” she began hesitatingly. “Yes?” “Be you--be you a lady detective?” Ruth's clear laughter rang out on the evening air. “Why, no, you foolish girl; I'm a newspaper woman, and I've earned a rest--that's all. You mustn't read books with yellow covers.” Hepsey withdrew, muttering vague apologies, and Ruth found her at the head of the stairs when she went up to her room. “How long have you been with Miss Hathaway?” she asked. “Five years come next June.” “Good night, Hepsey.” “Good night, Miss Thorne.” From sheer force of habit, Ruth locked her door. Her trunk was not a large one, and it did not take her long to put her simple wardrobe into the capacious closet and the dresser drawers. As she moved the empty trunk into the closet, she remembered the box of money that she had left in the attic, and went up to get it. When she returned she heard Hepsey's door close softly. “Silly child,” she said to herself. “I might just as well ask her if she isn't a'lady detective.' They'll laugh about that in the office when I go back.” She sat down, rocking contentedly, for it was April, and she would not have to go back until Aunt Jane came home, probably about the first of October. She checked off the free, health-giving months on her tired fingers, that would know the blue pencil and the typewriter no more until Autumn, when she would be strong again and the quivering nerves quite steady. She blessed the legacy which had fallen into Jane Hathaway's lap and led her, at fifty-five, to join a “personally conducted” party to the Old World. Ruth had always had a dim yearning for foreign travel, but just now she felt no latent injustice, such as had often rankled in her soul when her friends went and she remained at home. Thinking she heard Hepsey in the hall, and not caring to arouse further suspicion, she put out her light and sat by the window, with the shutters wide open. Far down the hill, where the road became level again, and on the left as she looked toward the village, was the white house, surrounded by a garden and a hedge, which she supposed was Miss Ainslie's. A timid chirp came from the grass, and the faint, sweet smell of growing things floated in through the open window at the other end of the room. A train from the city sounded a warning whistle as it approached the station, and then a light shone on the grass in front of Miss Ainslie's house. It was a little gleam, evidently from a candle. “So she's keeping a lighthouse, too,” thought Ruth. The train pulled out of the station and half an hour afterward the light disappeared. She meditated upon the general subject of illumination while she got ready for bed, but as soon as her head touched the pillow she lost consciousness and knew no more until the morning light crept into her room. II. The Attic