Mary sat knitting.  Beware of a woman who knits.  The keenest lawyer in our county is not so clever a cross-examiner as his sister when she sits with her needles and yarn.  Questions directed at one can be parried.  You expect them and dodge.  The woman knits and knits, and lulls you half to sleep, and then in a far-away voice asks questions.  They come as a boon, a gracious acknowledgment that you exist, and though in her mind your place is secondary to the flying needles and the tangled worsted, still you are there and she is half listening to what you have to say.  So you tell her twice as much as is wise.  You have no interest for her.  Her eyes are fixed on her work.  She asks you the secret of your life, and then bends farther over, seeming to forget your existence.  Desperate, you shout it at her, and she looks up and smiles, a wondering, distraught smile; then goes on knitting.

There were some things in Tim’s letter that I did not intend to tell Mary.  He had written to me in confidence.  A man does not mind letting one of his fellows know that he is in love with a woman, but to let a woman know it is different.  She will think him a fool, unless she is his inspiration.  I knew Tim.  I knew that he was no fool, and I did not wish her to get such an impression.  I loved a pretty woman.  So did Tim.  But Mary would not understand it in Tim’s case.  That was why I folded the letter when I had read the first four pages.

But Mary was knitting.  “It is fine to think he is getting along so well,” she said.

She looked up, but not at me.  Her face was turned to the window; her eyes were over the valley which was growing gray, for the sun was down.  What she saw there I could not tell.  A drearier sight is hard to find than our valley when the chill of the November evening is creeping over it as the fire in the west goes out.  Night covers it, and it sleeps.  But the winter twilight raises up its shadows.  In the darkness all is hidden.  In the half-light there is utter loneliness.

I turned from the window to the letter, and Mary looked at me for the first time in many minutes.

“Are you going to read the rest of the letter?” she demanded.

“You have heard ’most all of it,” I replied evasively.

“And the rest?” she said.

“Is of no interest,” I answered.  “It’s just a few personal, confidential things.  Perhaps some time I can tell you.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed carelessly, and went on knitting, drawing closer to the lamplight.

“How long is it since he left?” she asked at last, reaching down to untangle the worsted from the end of the rocker.

“Six weeks,” said I.  “It’s just six weeks coming to-morrow since Tim and I parted at Pleasantville.  To think he has been promoted already!  At that rate he should be head of the firm in a year or two.”

“Mr. Weston has been very kind,” said she.  “Of course he has seen that Tim had every chance.  He is the most thoughtful man I ever knew.  He——­”