"AUNTIE, what does 'ruthless' mean?" "Why do you wish to know, Hecla?" "I saw it in a book." "You shall show me the passage by-and-by. Just now you have to work." Hecla was hemming a small pocket-handkerchief, with red edges. She liked doing this, because it was for "Chris," but she did not love work for its own sake. She liked nothing which meant sitting still. Hers was a rather curious name. She had been born in Iceland, under the shadow, so to speak, of Mount Hecla. That was why she was so called. She sat at a small table in the middle of the room, with her back to the window, and Miss Storey, a slender, small, middle-aged lady, was near the fire. At Miss Storey's feet lay a fine black Persian cat, fast asleep; and in the window hung a gilt cage, the canary within ever hopping from perch to perch, except when it stopped to feed or to sing.