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Updated: June 8, 2025
Her eyes were small, dark, and so piercingly brilliant that they suggested jet beads. Her skin was dark and her lips had been habitually compressed into a straight line. None the less, it was the face that Ruth had seen in the ambrotype at Miss Ainslie's, with the additional hardness that comes to those who grow old without love.
Murray Ainslie's estate, and round by an estate owned by Mr. Campbell, and finally arrived at Hallery at about half-past twelve. In the afternoon I went round part of the estate, which I had already seen something of on the day of my arrival. Mangles's where I was kindly entertained by Mr. and Mrs.
Here a fresh-killed moose and an open-handed old-timer gave him and his dogs new strength, and at Ainslie's he felt repaid for it all when a stampede, ripe from Dawson in five hours, was sure he could get a dollar and a quarter for every egg he possessed. He came up the steep bank by the Dawson barracks with fluttering heart and shaking knees.
The world had seemingly given up its beauty to adorn Miss Ainslie's room. She had pottery from Mexico, China and Japan; strange things from Egypt and the Nile, and all the Oriental splendour of India and Persia. Ruth wisely asked no questions, but once, as before, she said hesitating; "they were given to me by a a friend."
She gave him a bundle of yellowed letters, tied with lavender ribbon. "I'll take them to her," he answered, picking up a small black case that lay on the floor, and opening it. "Why, Ruth!" he gasped. "It's my father's picture!" Miss Ainslie's voice rose again in pitiful cadence. "Carl, Carl, dear! Where are you? I want you oh, I want you!" He hastened to her, leaving the picture in Ruth's hand.
I have to go down there with a plate of somethin' Miss Hathaway's made, and Miss Ainslie allers says: 'Wait just a moment, please, Hepsey, I would like to send Miss Hathaway a jar of my preserves." She relapsed unconsciously into imitation of Miss Ainslie's speech.
"Believe me, my dear," said Miss Ainslie, simply, "it will give me great happiness." So it was arranged that the next day Ruth's trunk should be taken to Miss Ainslie's, and that she would stay until the first of October. Winfield was delighted, since it brought Ruth nearer to him and involved no long separation.
A step sounded overhead, and Hepsey regained her self-possession. She had heard nearly all of the conversation and could have told Miss Thorne a great deal about the young man. For instance, he had not said that he was boarding at Joe's, across the road from Miss Ainslie's, and that he intended to stay all Summer.
She was so gentle and so tender I shall always love her for that." The sweet voice vibrated with feeling, and Ruth's thoughts flew to the light in the attic window, but, no it could not be seen from Miss Ainslie's. "What does Aunt Jane look like?" she asked, after a pause. "I haven't a picture, except one that was taken a long time ago, but I'll get that."
The light in the attic window, the marked paragraph in the paper, and the death notices why, yes, the Charles Winfield who had married Abigail Weatherby was Miss Ainslie's lover, and Carl was his son. "He went away!" Miss Ainslie's voice came again to Ruth, when she told her story, with no hint of her lover's name. He went away, and soon afterward, married Abigail Weatherby, but why?
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