“Well?” said Amy again, after another pause.

The solemn woman did not immediately answer, but went on sewing, and rocking her body as she did so.  Amy waited patiently until her aunt should choose to answer.  She waited the more patiently because she was telling herself who it was that had brought that softer light into the face, if, indeed, it were really there.  She was thinking why he had been curious to know the reason that she had come into that room.  She was remembering a hundred little incidents which had revealed his constant interest in all her comings, and goings, and doings; and therefore she started when Aunt Martha, still rocking and sewing, said, quietly,

“Why did Lawrence Newt care what brought you here?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Aunt Martha.”

Miss Amy looked as indifferent as she could, knowing that her companion was studying her face.  And it was a study that companion relentlessly pursued, until Amy remarked that Lawrence Newt was such a generous gentleman that he could get wind of no distress but he instantly looked to see if he could relieve it.

Finding the theme fertile, Amy Waring, looking, with tender eyes at her relative, continued.

And yet with all the freedom with which she told the story of Lawrence Newt’s large heart, there was an unusual softness and shyness in her appearance.  The blithe glance was more drooping.  The clear, ringing voice was lower.  The words that generally fell with such a neat, crisp articulation from her lips now lingered upon them as if they were somehow honeyed, and so flowed more smoothly and more slowly.  She told of her first encounter with Mr. Newt at the Widow Simmers’s—­she told of all that she had heard from her cousin, Gabriel Bennet.

“Indeed, Aunt Martha, I should like to have every body think of me as kindly as he thinks of every body.”

She had been speaking for some time.  When she stopped, Aunt Martha said, quietly,

“But, Amy, although you have told me how charitable he is, you have not told me why he wanted to come here because he saw you at the window.”

“I suppose,” replied Amy, “it was because he thought there must be somebody to relieve here.”

“Don’t you suppose he thinks there is somebody to relieve in the next house, and the next, and has been ever since he has had an office in South Street?”

Amy felt very warm, and replied, carelessly, that she thought it was quite likely.

“I have plenty of time to think up here, my child,” continued Aunt Martha.  “God is so good that He has spared my reason, and I have satisfied myself why Lawrence Newt wanted to come here.”

Amy sat without replying, as if she were listening to distant music.  Her head drooped slightly forward; her hands were clasped in her lap; the delicate color glimmered upon her cheek, now deepening, now paling.  The silence was exquisite, but she must break it.