"It's the tiniest thing,smaller than a grain of sand.When Iplant them,I always wonder how those great,feathery petunias are coming out of those little,baby seeds,but they come.Over there are things that won't blossom till late--asters,tiger-lilies and prince's feather.It's going to be a beautiful garden,deary.Down by the gate are my sweet herbs and simples--marjoram,sweet thyme,rosemary,and lavender.I love the lavender,don't you?""Yes,I do,"replied Ruth,"but I've never seen it growing.""It's a little bush,with lavender flowers that yield honey,and it's all sweet--flowers,leaves,and all.I expect you'll laugh at me,but I've planted sunflowers and four-o'clocks and foxglove.""I won't laugh---I think it's lovely.What do you like best,Miss Ainslie?""I love them all,"she said,with a smile on her lips and her deep,unfathomable eyes fixed upon Ruth,"but I think the lavender comes first.It's so sweet,and then it has associations--"She paused,in confusion,and Ruth went on,quickly:"I think they all have associations,and that's why we love them.I can't bear red geraniums because a cross old woman I knew when I was a child had her yard full of them,and I shall always love the lavender,"she added,softly,"because it makes me think of you."Miss Ainslie's checks flushed and her eyes shone."Now we'll go into the house,"she said,"and we'll have tea.""I shouldn't stay any longer,"murmured Ruth,following her,"I've been here so long now.""'T isn't long,"contradicted Miss Ainslie,sweetly,"it's been only a very few minutes."Every moment,the house and its owner took on new beauty and charm.Miss Ainslie spread a napkin of finest damask upon the little mahogany tea table,then brought in a silver teapot of quaint design,and two cups of Japanese china,dainty to the point of fragility.
"Why,Miss Ainslie,"exclaimed Ruth,in surprise,"where did you get Royal Kaga?"Miss Ainslie was bending over the table,and the white hand that held the teapot trembled a little."They were a present from--a friend,"she answered,in a low voice.
"They're beautiful,"said Ruth,hurriedly.
She had been to many an elaborate affair,which was down on the social calendar as a "tea,"sometimes as reporter and often as guest,but she had found no hostess like Miss Ainslie,no china so exquisitely fine,nor any tea like the clear,fragrant amber which was poured into her cup.
"It came from China,"said Miss Ainslie,feeling the unspoken question."I had a whole chest of it,but it's almost all gone."Ruth was turning her cup and consulting the oracle."Here's two people,a man and a woman,from a great distance,and,yes,here's money,too.What is there in yours?""Nothing,deary,and besides,it doesn't come true."When Ruth finally aroused herself to go home,the old restlessness,for the moment,was gone."There's a charm about you,"she said,"for I feel as if I could sleep a whole week and never wake at all.""It's the tea,"smiled Miss Ainslie,"for I'm a very commonplace body.""You,commonplace?"repeated Ruth;"why,there's nobody like you!"They stood at the door a few moments,talking aimlessly,but Ruth was watching Miss Ainslie's face,as the sunset light lay caressingly upon it."I've had a lovely time,"she said,taking another step toward the gate.
"So have I--you'll come again,won't you?"The sweet voice was pleading now,and Ruth answered it in her inmost soul.
Impulsively,she came back,threw her arms around Miss Ainslie's neck,and kissed her."I love you,"she said,"don't you know Ido?"
The quick tears filled Miss Ainslie's eyes and she smiled through the mist."Thank you,deary,"she whispered,"it's a long time since any one has kissed me--a long time!"Ruth turned back at the gate,to wave her hand,and even at that distance,saw that Miss Ainslie was very pale.
Winfield was waiting for her,just outside the hedge,but his presence jarred upon her strangely,and her salutation was not cordial.
"Is the lady a friend of yours?"he inquired,indifferently.
"She is,"returned Ruth;"I don't go to see my enemies--do you?""I don't know whether I do or not,"he said,looking at her significantly.
Her colour rose,but she replied,sharply:"For the sake of peace,let us assume that you do not.""Miss Thorne,"he began,as they climbed the hill,"I don't see why you don't apply something cooling to your feverish temper.
You have to live with yourself all the time,you know,and,occasionally,it must be very difficult.A rag,now,wet in cold water,and tied around your neck--have you ever tried that?It's said to be very good.""I have one on now,"she answered,with apparent seriousness,"only you can't see it under my ribbon.It's getting dry and Ithink I'd better hurry home to wet it again,don't you?"Winfield laughed joyously."You'll do,"he said.
Before they were half up the hill,they were on good terms again.
"I don't want to go home,do you?"he asked.
"Home?I have no home--I'm only a poor working girl.""Oh,what would this be with music!I can see it now!Ladies and gentlemen,with your kind permission,I will endeavour to give you a little song of my own composition,entitled:'Why Has the Working Girl No Home!'""You haven't my permission,and you're a wretch.""I am,"he admitted,cheerfully,"moreover,I'm a worm in the dust.""I don't like worms."
"Then you'll have to learn."
