Part 28

She locked her door, shutting out all the world from the nameless joy that surged in her heart. The mirror disclosed flushed, feverish cheeks and dark eyes that shone like stars. “Ruth Thorne,” she said to herself, “I'm ashamed of you! First you act like a fool and then like a girl of sixteen!”

Then her senses became confused and the objects in the room circled around her unsteadily. “I'm tired,” she murmured. Her head sank drowsily into the lavender scented pillow and she slept too soundly to take note of the three o'clock train leaving the station. It was almost sunset when she was aroused by voices under her window.

“That feller's gone home,” said Joe.

“Do tell!” exclaimed Hepsey. “Did he pay his board?”

“Yep, every cent. He's a-comin' back.”

“When?”

“D'know. Don't she know?” The emphasis indicated Miss Thorne.

“I guess not,” answered Hepsey. “They said good bye right in front of me, and there wa'n't nothin' said about it.”

“They ain't courtin', then,” said Joe, after a few moments of painful thought, and Ruth, in her chamber above, laughed happily to herself.

“Mebbe not,” rejoined Hepsey. “It ain't fer sech as me to say when there's courtin' and when there ain't, after havin' gone well nigh onto five year with a country loafer what ain't never said nothin'.” She stalked into the house, closed the door, and noisily bolted it. Joe stood there for a moment, as one struck dumb, then gave a long, low whistle of astonishment and walked slowly down the hill.

X. Love Letters

“A week!” Ruth said to herself the next morning. “Seven long days! No letter, because he mustn't write, no telegram, because there's no office within ten miles--nothing to do but wait!”

When she went down to breakfast, Hepsey did not seem to hear her cheery greeting, but was twisting her apron and walking about restlessly. “Miss Thorne,” she said, at length, “did you ever get a love letter?”

“Why, yes, of course,” laughed Ruth. “Every girl gets love letters.”

Hepsey brightened visibly, then inquired, with great seriousness: “Can you read writin', Miss Thorne?”

“That depends on the writing.”

“Yes'm, it does so. I can read some writin'--I can read Miss Hathaway's writin', and some of the furrin letters she's had, but I got some this mornin' I can't make out, nohow.”

“Where did you find 'writing' this morning? It's too early for the mail, isn't it?”

“Yes'm. It was stuck under the kitchen winder.” Hepsey looked up at the ceiling in an effort to appear careless, and sighed. Then she clutched violently at the front of her blue gingham dress, immediately repenting of her rashness. Ruth was inwardly amused but asked no helpful questions.

Finally, Hepsey took the plunge. “Would you mind tryin' to make out some writin' I've got, Miss Thorne?”

“Of course not--let me see it.”

Hepsey extracted a letter from the inmost recesses of her attire and stood expectantly, with her hands on her hips.

“Why, it's a love letter!” Ruth exclaimed.

“Yes'm. When you get through readin' it to yourself, will you read it out loud?”

The letter, which was written on ruled note paper, bore every evidence of care and thought. “Hepsey,” it began, and, on the line below, with a great flourish under it, “Respected Miss” stood, in large capitals.

“Although it is now but a short interval,” Ruth read, “since my delighted eyes first rested on your beautiful form--”

“Five year!” interjected Hepsey.

“--yet I dare to hope that you will receive graciously what I am about to say, as I am assured you will, if you reciprocate the sentiments which you have aroused in my bosom.