Lavender and Old Lace | Page 4

His name's Alfred. Mamie's his mother."
Miss Thorne endeavoured to conceal her amusement and Joe was
pleased because the ice was broken. "I change their names every once
in a while," he said, "'cause it makes some variety, but now I've
named'em about all the names I know."
The road wound upward in its own lazy fashion, and there were trees at
the left, though only one or two shaded the hill itself. As they
approached the summit, a girl in a blue gingham dress and a neat white
apron came out to meet them.
"Come right in, Miss Thorne," she said, "and I'll explain it to you."
Ruth descended, inwardly vowing that she would ride no more in Joe's
carriage, and after giving some directions about her trunk, followed her
guide indoors.
The storm-beaten house was certainly entitled to the respect accorded
to age. It was substantial, but unpretentious in outline, and had not been
painted for a long time. The faded green shutters blended harmoniously
with the greyish white background, and the piazza, which was
evidently an unhappy afterthought of the architect, had two or three
new shingles on its roof.
"You see it's this way, Miss Thorne," the maid began, volubly; "Miss
Hathaway, she went earlier than she laid out to, on account of the folks
decidin' to take a steamer that sailed beforehand--before the other one, I
mean. She went in sech a hurry that she didn't have time to send you
word and get an answer, but she's left a letter here for you, for she
trusted to your comin'."
Miss Thorne laid her hat and jacket aside and settled herself

comfortably in a rocker. The maid returned presently with a letter
which Miss Hathaway had sealed with half an ounce of red wax,
presumably in a laudable effort to remove temptation from the path of
the red-cheeked, wholesome, farmer's daughter who stood near by with
her hands on her hips.
"Miss Ruth Thorne," the letter began,
"Dear Niece:
"I am writing this in a hurry, as we are going a week before we
expected to. I think you will find everything all right. Hepsey will
attend to the house-keeping, for I don't suppose you know much about
it, coming from the city. She's a good-hearted girl, but she's set in her
ways, and you'll have to kinder give in to her, but any time when you
can't, just speak to her sharp and she'll do as you tell her.
"I have left money enough for the expenses until I come back, in a little
box on the top shelf of the closet in the front room, under a pile of
blankets and comfortables. The key that unlocks it is hung on a nail
driven into the back of the old bureau in the attic. I believe Hepsey is
honest and reliable, but I don't believe in tempting folks.
"When I get anywhere where I can, I will write and send you my
address, and then you can tell me how things are going at home. The
catnip is hanging from the rafters in the attic, in case you should want
some tea, and the sassafras is in the little drawer in the bureau that's got
the key hanging behind it.
"If there's anything else you should want, I reckon Hepsey will know
where to find it. Hoping that this will find you enjoying the great
blessing of good health, I remain,
"Your Affectionate Aunt,
"JANE HATHAWAY.
"P. S. You have to keep a lamp burning every night in the east window

of the attic. Be careful that nothing catches afire."
The maid was waiting, in fear and trembling, for she did not know what
directions her eccentric mistress might have left.
"Everything is all right, Hepsey," said Miss Thorne, pleasantly, "and I
think you and I will get along nicely. Did Miss Hathaway tell you what
room I was to have?"
"No'm. She told me you was to make yourself at home. She said you
could sleep where you pleased."
"Very well, I will go up and see for myself. I would like my tea at six
o'clock." She still held the letter in her hand, greatly to the chagrin of
Hepsey, who was interested in everything and had counted upon a peep
at it. It was not Miss Hathaway's custom to guard her letters and she
was both surprised and disappointed.
As Ruth climbed the narrow stairway, the quiet, old-fashioned house
brought balm to her tired soul. It was exquisitely clean, redolent of
sweet herbs, and in its atmosphere was a subtle, Puritan restraint.
Have not our houses, mute as they are, their own way of conveying an
impression? One may go into a house which has been empty for a long
time, and yet