To-day—he hadn't time.
I went down with him as usual to the front door, weeping inwardly, yet hoping, praying, that before the door closed he would say something that would help—something kind.
He often said the best things of all just as he was going—as though he had not dared to be half so interesting, or a tenth so kind, but in the very act of making his escape.
To-day he put on his covert coat in a moody silence. Still silent, he took his hat.
I stood with the door-knob in my hand. "You think, then, even if Aunt Josephine helped——"
"Who is Aunt Josephine?"
"My father's step-sister. She is well off."
Aunt Josephine's riches made no impression upon him. He was going away a different man from the one who had come in and pushed away my papers, to sit beside me and to take my hand. He pulled his stick out of the umbrella-stand.
"You feel sure I couldn't?" I pleaded at the door.
"I feel sure you could do something better."