Part 30

“MR. JOSEPH PENDLETON--

“Respected Sir: Although your communication of recent date was a great surprise to me, candour compels me to confess that it was not entirely disagreeable. I have observed, though with true feminine delicacy, that your affections were inclined to settle in my direction, and have not repelled your advances.

“Still, I do not feel that as yet we are sufficiently acquainted to render immediate matrimony either wise or desirable, and since the suddenness of your proposal has in a measure taken my breath away, I must beg that you will allow me a proper interval in which to consider the matter, and, in the meantime, think of me simply as your dearest friend.

“I may add, in conclusion, that your character and standing in the community are entirely satisfactory to me. Thanking you for the honour you have conferred upon me, believe me, Dear Sir,

“Your sincere friend,

“HEPSEY.”

“My!” exclaimed Hepsey, with overmastering pride; “ain't that beautiful! It's better than his'n, ain't it?”

“I wouldn't say that,” Ruth replied, with proper modesty, “but I think it will do.”

“Yes'm. 'Twill so. Your writin' ain't nothin' like Joe's,” she continued, scanning it closely, “but it's real pretty.” Then a bright idea illuminated her countenance. “Miss Thorne, if you'll write it out on the note paper with a pencil, I can go over it with the ink, and afterward, when it's dry, I'll rub out the pencil. It'll be my writin' then, but it'll look jest like yours.”

“All right, Hepsey.”

She found it difficult to follow the lines closely, but at length achieved a respectable result. “I'll take good care of it,” Hepsey said, wrapping the precious missive in a newspaper, “and this afternoon, when I get my work done up, I'll fix it. Joe'll be surprised, won't he?”

Late in the evening, when Hepsey came to Ruth, worn with the unaccustomed labours of correspondence, and proudly displayed the nondescript epistle, she was compelled to admit that unless Joe had superhuman qualities he would indeed “be surprised.”

The next afternoon Ruth went down to Miss Ainslie's. “You've been neglecting me, dear,” said that gentle soul, as she opened the door.

“I haven't meant to,” returned Ruth, conscience-stricken, as she remembered how long it had been since the gate of the old-fashioned garden had swung on its hinges for her.

A quiet happiness had settled down upon Ruth and the old perturbed spirit was gone, but Miss Ainslie was subtly different. “I feel as if something was going to happen,” she said.

“Something nice?”

“I--don't know.” The sweet face was troubled and there were fine lines about the mouth, such as Ruth had never seen there before.

“You're nervous, Miss Ainslie--it's my turn to scold now.”

“I never scolded you, did I deary?”

“You couldn't scold anybody--you're too sweet. You're not unhappy, are you, Miss Ainslie?”

“I? Why, no! Why should I be unhappy?” Her deep eyes were fixed upon Ruth.

“I--I didn't know,” Ruth answered, in confusion.

“I learned long ago,” said Miss Ainslie, after a little, “that we may be happy or not, just as we choose. Happiness is not a circumstance, nor a set of circumstances; it's only a light, and we may keep it burning if we will. So many of us are like children, crying for the moon, instead of playing contentedly with the few toys we have. We're always hoping for something, and when it does n't come we fret and worry; when it does, why there's always something else we'd rather have. We deliberately make nearly all of our unhappiness, with our own unreasonable discontent, and nothing will ever make us happy, deary, except the spirit within.”

“But, Miss Ainslie,” Ruth objected, “do you really think everybody can be happy?”

“Of course--everybody who wishes to be. Some people are happier when they're miserable. I don't mean, deary, that it's easy for any of us, and it's harder for some than for others, all because we never grow up. We're always children--our playthings are a little different, that's all.”

“'Owning ourselves forever children,' quoted Ruth, “'gathering pebbles on a boundless shore.'”

“Yes, I was just thinking of that. A little girl breaks her doll, and though the new one may be much prettier, it never wholly fills the vacant place, and it's that way with a woman's dream.” The sweet voice sank into a whisper, followed by a lingering sigh.

“Miss Ainslie,” said Ruth, after a pause, “did you know my mother?”