“Oh, won’t you—­won’t you please—­” He turned his head, looking appealingly at the little old dressmaker.

“Wait, I’ll help you,” she said.  She came into the room, up to the table, and moved the pamphlets to one side.

“Thanks, thanks,” murmured Old Grannis, setting down the tray.

“Now—­now—­now I will go back,” she exclaimed, hurriedly.

“No—­no,” returned the old Englishman.  “Don’t go, don’t go.  I’ve been so lonely to-night—­and last night too—­all this year—­all my life,” he suddenly cried.

“I—­I—­I’ve forgotten the sugar.”

“But I never take sugar in my tea.”

“But it’s rather cold, and I’ve spilled it—­almost all of it.”

“I’ll drink it from the saucer.”  Old Grannis had drawn up his armchair for her.

“Oh, I shouldn’t.  This is—­this is so—­You must think ill of me.”  Suddenly she sat down, and resting her elbows on the table, hid her face in her hands.

“Think ill of you?” cried Old Grannis, “think ill of you?  Why, you don’t know—­you have no idea—­all these years—­living so close to you, I—­I—­” he paused suddenly.  It seemed to him as if the beating of his heart was choking him.

“I thought you were binding your books to-night,” said Miss Baker, suddenly, “and you looked tired.  I thought you looked tired when I last saw you, and a cup of tea, you know, it—­that—­that does you so much good when you’re tired.  But you weren’t binding books.”

“No, no,” returned Old Grannis, drawing up a chair and sitting down.  “No, I—­the fact is, I’ve sold my apparatus; a firm of booksellers has bought the rights of it.”

“And aren’t you going to bind books any more?” exclaimed the little dressmaker, a shade of disappointment in her manner.  “I thought you always did about four o’clock.  I used to hear you when I was making tea.”

It hardly seemed possible to Miss Baker that she was actually talking to Old Grannis, that the two were really chatting together, face to face, and without the dreadful embarrassment that used to overwhelm them both when they met on the stairs.  She had often dreamed of this, but had always put it off to some far-distant day.  It was to come gradually, little by little, instead of, as now, abruptly and with no preparation.  That she should permit herself the indiscretion of actually intruding herself into his room had never so much as occurred to her.  Yet here she was, in his room, and they were talking together, and little by little her embarrassment was wearing away.

“Yes, yes, I always heard you when you were making tea,” returned the old Englishman; “I heard the tea things.  Then I used to draw my chair and my work-table close to the wall on my side, and sit there and work while you drank your tea just on the other side; and I used to feel very near to you then.  I used to pass the whole evening that way.”