“Stop,” exclaimed the old Englishman, rising to his feet. “I didn't know it was you at first. I hadn't dreamed—I couldn't believe you would be so good, so kind to me. Oh,” he cried, with a sudden sharp breath, “oh, you ARE kind. I—I—you have—have made me very happy.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Miss Baker, ready to sob. “It was unlady-like. You will—you must think ill of me.” She stood in the hall. The tears were running down her cheeks, and she had no free hand to dry them.
“Let me—I'll take the tray from you,” cried Old Grannis, coming forward. A tremulous joy came upon him. Never in his life had he been so happy. At last it had come—come when he had least expected it. That which he had longed for and hoped for through so many years, behold, it was come to-night. He felt his awkwardness leaving him. He was almost certain that the little dressmaker loved him, and the thought gave him boldness. He came toward her and took the tray from her hands, and, turning back into the room with it, made as if to set it upon his table. But the piles of his pamphlets were in the way. Both of his hands were occupied with the tray; he could not make a place for it on the table. He stood for a moment uncertain, his embarrassment returning.
“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.”