Ruth sat by her, pretending to read, but, in reality, watching her closely, until the deep, regular breathing assured her that she was asleep. She went out into the garden and found Winfield in the arbour. “How's this patient?” she asked, kissing him lightly on the forehead. “I'm all right, dearest,” he answered, drawing her down beside him, “and I'm ashamed of myself because I was so foolish.” During the afternoon Ruth made frequent trips to the house, each time finding Miss Ainslie sound asleep. It was after six o'clock when she woke and rubbed her eyes, wonderingly. “How long have I been asleep, Ruth?” “All the afternoon, Miss Ainslie--do you feel better now?” “Yes, I think I do. I didn't sleep last night, but it's been years since I've taken a nap in the daytime.” Ruth invited Carl to supper, and made them both sit still while she prepared the simple meal, which, as he said, was “astonishingly good.” He was quite himself again, but Miss Ainslie, though trying to assume her old manner, had undergone a great change. Carl helped Ruth with the dishes, saying he supposed he might as well become accustomed to it, and, feeling the need of sleep, went home very early. “I'm all right,” he said to Ruth, as he kissed her at the door, “and you're just the sweetest girl in the world. Good night, darling.” A chill mist came inland, and Ruth kept pine knots burning in the fireplace. They sat without other light, Miss Ainslie with her head resting upon her hand, and Ruth watching her narrowly. Now and then they spoke aimlessly, of commonplaces. When the last train came in, Miss Ainslie raised her eyes to the silver candlestick that stood on the mantel and sighed. “Shall I put the light in the window?” asked Ruth. It was a long time before Miss Ainslie answered. “No, deary,” she said sadly, “never any more.” She was trying to hide her suffering, and Ruth's heart ached for her in vain. The sound of the train died away in the distance and the firelight faded. “Ruth,” she said, in a low voice, “I am going away.” “Away, Miss Ainslie? Where?” “I don't know, dear--it's where we all go--'the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.' Sometimes it's a long journey and sometimes a short one, but we all take it--alone--at the last.” Ruth's heart throbbed violently, then stood still. “Don't!” she cried, sharply. “I'm not afraid, dear, and I'm ready to go, even though you have made me so happy--you and he.” Miss Ainslie waited a moment, then continued, in a different tone: “To-day the lawyer came and made my will. I haven't much--just this little house, a small income paid semi-annually, and my--my things. All my things are for you--the house and the income are for--for him.”