“I did not need you to tell me that,” I thought.

It was on Thursday, the 13th; Richard had come up a little earlier, in the evening.  It grew to be a little earlier every evening.

“By-and-by he will not go down-town at all, at this rate,” I said to myself, when I heard his ring that night.

I was sitting by the parlor-lamp, with the evening paper in my lap, of which I had not read a word.  He came and sat down by the table, and we talked a little while.  I tried to find things to talk about, and wondered if it always would be so.  I felt as if some day I should give out entirely, and have to go through bankruptcy. (And take a fresh start.)

He never seemed to feel the want of talking; I suppose he was quite satisfied with his thoughts, and with having me beside him.

By-and-by, he said he should have to go up to the library, and look over the last of some books of my uncle’s, and finish an inventory that he had begun.  Could I not bring my work and sit there by him?  I felt a little selfish, for we were already on the last week, and I said I thought I would sit in the parlor.  I had to write a letter to Sister Madeline.  I had not heard a word from her yet, though I had written twice.

Why could not I write in the library?

I always liked to be alone when I wrote letters:  I could not think, when any one was in the room.  Besides, trying to smile, he would be sure to talk.

He looked disappointed, and lingered a good while before he went away.  As he rose to go away he threw into my lap a little package, saying,

“There is some white lace for you.  Can’t you use it on some of your clothes?  I don’t know anything about such things:  maybe it isn’t pretty enough, but I thought perhaps it would do for that lilac silk you talked of.”

I opened the package:  it was exquisite, fit for a princess; and as I bent over it, I thought, how dead I must be, that it gave me no pleasure to know it was my own, for I had loved such baubles so, a year ago.

“What a mass of it!” I exclaimed, unfolding yard on yard.

“You must always wear lace,” he said, throwing one end of it over my black dress around the shoulder.  “I like you in it.  I am tired of those stiff little linen collars.”

The lace had given me a little compunction about not spending the evening with him:  but as I had said so, I could not draw back; so I compromised the matter by going up to the library with him, to see that he was comfortable, before I came down to write my letter.

I brought the little student-lamp from my own room and lit it, and put it on the library-table, and brought him some fresh pens, and opened the inkstand for him, even pushed up the chair and put a little footstool by it.  Though he was standing by the bookshelves, and seemed to be engrossed by them, I knew that he was watching me, filled with content and satisfaction.