that of course he had reached for it, so that it was to be seen how used she was to have all tiny things done for her, though this was not then of his tremulous observing.  He did perceive, however, that he was to furl the dainty thing; he pressed the catch, and let down the top timidly, as if fearing to break or tear it; and, as it closed, held near his face, he caught a very faint, sweet, spicy emanation from it like wild roses and cinnamon.

He did not know her; but his timidity and a strange little choke in his throat, the sudden fright which had seized upon him, were not caused by embarrassment.  He had no thought that she was one he had known but could not, for the moment, recall; there was nothing of the awkwardness of that; no, he was overpowered by the miracle of this meeting.  And yet, white with marvelling, he felt it to be so much more touchingly a great happiness than he had ever known that at first it was inexpressibly sad.

At last he heard her voice again, shaking a little, as she said: 

“I am glad you remembered.”

“Remembered what?” he faltered.

“Then you don’t?” she cried.  “And yet you came.”

“Came here, do you mean?”

“Yes—­now, at noon.”

“Ah!” he half whispered, unable to speak aloud. 
“Was it you who said—­who said, `Remember! 
Across—­across—­“’

“`Across Main Street bridge at noon!’ " she finished for him, gently.  “Yes.”

He took a deep breath in the wonder of it. 
“Where was it you said that?” he asked, slowly. 
“Was it last night?”

“Don’t you even know that you came to meet me?”

“I—­came to—­to meet—­you!”

She gave a little pitying cry, very near a sob, seeing his utter bewilderment.

“It was like the strangest dream in the world,” she said.  “You were at the station when I came, last night.  You don’t remember at all?”

His eyes downcast, his face burning hotly, he could only shake his head.

“Yes,” she continued.  “I thought no one would be there, for I had not written to say what train I should take, but when I stepped down from the platform, you were standing there; though you didn’t see me at first, not until I had called your name and ran to you.  You said, `I’ve come to meet you,’ but you said it queerly, I thought.  And then you called a carriage for me; but you seemed so strange you couldn’t tell how you knew that I was coming, and—­and then I—­I understood you weren’t yourself.  You were very quiet, but I knew, I knew!  So I made you get into the carriage—­and—­and—­”

She faltered to a stop, and with that, shame itself brought him courage; he turned and faced her.  She had lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, but at his movement she dropped it, and it was not so much the delicate loveliness of her face that he saw then as the tears upon her cheeks.

“Ah, poor boy!” she cried.  “I knew!  I knew!”