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A. Ainslie Common left all competitors far behind with a splendid picture, taken January 30, 1883, by means of an exposure of thirty-seven minutes in the focus of his 3-foot silver-on-glass mirror.
Perhaps I should not have spoken at all," she concluded in genuine distress. "It's all right, Miss Ainslie," Ruth assured her, "I know just how you feel." Winfield, having recovered his composure, asked a question about the garden, and Miss Ainslie led them in triumph around her domain.
There is no accounting for the acts of a nation of masqueraders! But perhaps the most generally-accepted version of Hesden's journey was that he had run away to espouse Mollie Ainslie. To her was traced his whole bias toward the colored population and "Radical" principles. Nothing evil was said of her character.
"Was his name Winfield?" she asked suddenly, then instantly hated herself for the question. The ambrotype fell to the floor. Miss Ainslie stooped to pick it up and Ruth did not see her face. "Perhaps," she said, in a strange tone, "but I never have asked a lady the name of her friend." Gentle as it was, Ruth felt the rebuke keenly.
Just as they were about to rush down the hillside, Mollie Ainslie, with a white set face, mounted on her black horse, dashed in front of them, and cried, "Halt!" Eliab Hill had long been imploring them with upraised hands to be calm and listen to reason, but his voice was unheeded or unheard in the wild uproar.
Robert Ainslie, a young gentleman of good education and some natural ability, with whom he left Edinburgh on the 5th May, a fortnight after the publication of his poems. We are told that the poet, just before he mounted his horse, received a letter from Dr. Blair, which, having partly read, he crumpled up and angrily thrust into his pocket.
When he sat down beside her, she indicated the waste, of climbing pasture, which ran up, interspersed with gorse bushes and clumps of heather, to the dusky moor. "Not a sign of cultivation," she said. "I suppose that grass is never broken up? How much foundation is there for Mr. Weston's views?" Ainslie laughed. "I'm afraid I'm hardly competent to decide, but there are people who agree with him.
Now, he had lost it altogether. And he never found out who bit his apple. By John Brown, M.D. Four and thirty years ago, Bob Ainslie and I were coming up Infirmary street from the high school, our heads together, and our arms intertwisted, as only lovers and boys know how or why. When we got to the top of the street, and turned north, we espied a crowd at the Tron-church.
Ruth was cold from head to foot, and her senses reeled. Every word that Winfield had said in the morning sounded again in her ears. What was it that went on around her, of which she had no ken? It seemed as though she stood absolutely alone, in endless space, while planets swept past, out of their orbits, with all the laws of force set suddenly aside. Miss Ainslie felt her shuddering fear.
Ruth doubted for a moment, then her heart softened with love for Aunt Jane, who had hidden the knowledge that would be a death blow to Miss Ainslie, and let her live on, happy in her dream, while the stern Puritan conscience made her keep the light in the attic window in fulfilment of her promise.
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