her eyes met his wonderingly—“how much trouble you can have, with all the money you want! I—I was sorry for her,” she added, half to herself.
Before he thought he leaned forward, took her hand with the silver tablespoon in it, and kissed it gently. He admired her as he would admire some charming soft pastel hung in a cool white room.
“How sweet and good you are!” he said warmly; and then, to cover her deep embarrassment and his own sudden emotion, he continued quickly, “Are you very busy in the morning, always?”
“There are different things,” she murmured, still looking at her spoon. “I have letters to write—I keep up with a good many old friends in Binghamville and Albany, where I lived with my married niece ten years, till they moved West. I loved her children; I half brought them up. One died; I can’t seem to get over it—” Her eyes filled,
