CHAPTER IX. BY HUMBLE MEANS
As lightly as a rose petal upon the shimmering surface of a stream, Summer was drifting away, but whither, no one seemed to care. The odour of printer's ink upon the morning paper no longer aroused vain longings in Winfield's breast, and Ruth had all but forgotten her former connection with the newspaper world.
By degrees, Winfield had arranged a routine which seemed admirable. Until luncheon time, he was with Ruth and, usually, out of doors, according to prescription. In the afternoon, he went up again, sometimes staying to dinner, and, always, he spent his evenings there.
“ Why don't you ask me to have my trunk sent up here?” he asked Ruth, one day.
“ I hadn't thought of it,” she laughed. “I suppose it hasn't seemed necessary.”
“ Miss Hathaway would
