“But there’s something I want you to do for me immediately, Joe.”

“What’s that?”

“I want the old house put in order.  I’m going to live there.”

“Alone?”

“I’m almost twenty-seven, and that’s being enough of an old maid for me to risk Canaan’s thinking me eccentric, isn’t it?”

“It will think anything you do is all right.”

“And once,” she cried, “it thought everything I did all wrong!”

“Yes.  That’s the difference.”

“You mean it will commend me because I’m thought rich?”

“No, no,” he said, meditatively, “it isn’t that.  It’s because everybody will be in love with you.”

“Quite everybody!” she asked.

“Certainly,” he replied.  “Anybody who didn’t would be absurd.”

“Ah, Joe!” she laughed.  “You always were the nicest boy in the world, my dear!”

At that he turned toward her with a sudden movement and his lips parted, but not to speak.  She had rested one arm upon the desk, and her cheek upon her hand; the pen she had picked up, still absently held in her fingers, touching her lips; and it was given to him to know that he would always keep that pen, though he would never write with it again.  The soft lamplight fell across the lower part of her face, leaving her eyes, which were lowered thoughtfully, in the shadow of her hat.  The room was blotted out in darkness behind her.  Like the background of an antique portrait, the office, with its dusty corners and shelves and hideous safe, had vanished, leaving the charming and thoughtful face revealed against an even, spacious brownness.  Only Ariel and the roses and the lamp were clear; and a strange, small pain moved from Joe’s heart to his throat, as he thought that this ugly office, always before so harsh and grim and lonely—­loneliest for him when it had been most crowded,—­was now transfigured into something very, very different from an office; that this place where he sat, with a lamp and flowers on a desk between him and a woman who called him “my dear,” must be like—­like something that people called “home.”

And then he leaned across the desk toward her, as he said again what he had said a little while before,—­and his voice trembled: 

“Ariel, it is you?”

She looked at him and smiled.

“You’ll be here always, won’t you?  You’re not going away from Canaan again?”

For a moment it seemed that she had not heard him.  Then her bright glance at him wavered and fell.  She rose, turning slightly away from him, but not so far that he could not see the sudden agitation in her face.

“Ah!” he cried, rising too, “I don’t want you to think I don’t understand, or that I meant I should ever ask you to stay here!  I couldn’t mean that; you know I couldn’t, don’t you?  You know I understand that it’s all just your beautiful friendliness, don’t you?”

“It isn’t beautiful; it’s just me, Joe,” she said.  “It couldn’t be any other way.”