“I was making some tea, and I thought you would like to have a cup.”

Old Grannis dropped his hands upon either arm of his chair, and, leaning forward a little, looked at her blankly.  He did not speak.

The retired dressmaker’s courage had carried her thus far; now it deserted her as abruptly as it had come.  Her cheeks became scarlet; her funny little false curls trembled with her agitation.  What she had done seemed to her indecorous beyond expression.  It was an enormity.  Fancy, she had gone into his room, into his room—­Mister Grannis’s room.  She had done this—­she who could not pass him on the stairs without a qualm.  What to do she did not know.  She stood, a fixture, on the threshold of his room, without even resolution enough to beat a retreat.  Helplessly, and with a little quaver in her voice, she repeated obstinately: 

“I was making some tea, and I thought you would like to have a cup of tea.”  Her agitation betrayed itself in the repetition of the word.  She felt that she could not hold the tray out another instant.  Already she was trembling so that half the tea was spilled.

Old Grannis still kept silence, still bending forward, with wide eyes, his hands gripping the arms of his chair.

Then with the tea-tray still held straight before her, the little dressmaker exclaimed tearfully: 

“Oh, I didn’t mean—­I didn’t mean—­I didn’t know it would seem like this.  I only meant to be kind and bring you some tea; and now it seems so improper.  I—­I—­I’m so ashamed!  I don’t know what you will think of me.  I—­” she caught her breath—­“improper”—­she managed to exclaim, “unlady-like—­you can never think well of me—­I’ll go.  I’ll go.”  She turned about.

“Stop,” cried Old Grannis, finding his voice at last.  Miss Baker paused, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes very wide open, blinking through her tears, for all the world like a frightened child.

“Stop,” exclaimed the old Englishman, rising to his feet.  “I didn’t know it was you at first.  I hadn’t dreamed—­I couldn’t believe you would be so good, so kind to me.  Oh,” he cried, with a sudden sharp breath, “oh, you are kind.  I—­I—­you have—­have made me very happy.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Miss Baker, ready to sob.  “It was unlady-like.  You will—­you must think ill of me.”  She stood in the hall.  The tears were running down her cheeks, and she had no free hand to dry them.

“Let me—­I’ll take the tray from you,” cried Old Grannis, coming forward.  A tremulous joy came upon him.  Never in his life had he been so happy.  At last it had come—­come when he had least expected it.  That which he had longed for and hoped for through so many years, behold, it was come to-night.  He felt his awkwardness leaving him.  He was almost certain that the little dressmaker loved him, and the thought gave him boldness.  He came toward her and took the tray from her hands, and, turning back into the room with it, made as if to set it upon his table.  But the piles of his pamphlets were in the way.  Both of his hands were occupied with the tray; he could not make a place for it on the table.  He stood for a moment uncertain, his embarrassment returning.