“Well?” said Amy, after a few moments, and her hand had taken Aunt Martha’s, but she let it go again when she saw that it helped her to tell the story if she worked.
“He said he had seen you at the window one day, and he was resolved to find out what brought you into Front Street. But before he could make up his mind to come, he chanced to see me at the same window, and then he waited no longer.”
The tone was more natural than Amy had ever heard from Aunt Martha’s lips. She remarked that the severity of her costume was unchanged, except that a little strip of white collar around the throat somewhat alleviated its dense gloom. Was it Amy’s fancy merely that the little line of white was symbolical, and that she saw a more human light in her aunt’s eyes and upon her face?
“Well?” said Amy again, after another pause.
The solemn woman did not immediately answer, but went on sewing, and rocking her body as she did so. Amy waited patiently until her aunt should choose to answer. She waited the more patiently because she was telling herself who it was that had brought that softer light into the face, if, indeed, it were really there. She was thinking why he had been curious to know the reason that she had come into that room. She was remembering a hundred little incidents which had revealed his constant interest in all her comings, and goings, and doings; and therefore she started when Aunt Martha, still rocking and sewing, said, quietly,
“Why did Lawrence Newt care what brought you here?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Aunt Martha.”
Miss Amy looked as indifferent as she could, knowing that her companion was studying her face. And it was a study that companion relentlessly pursued, until Amy remarked that Lawrence Newt was such a generous gentleman that he could get wind of no distress but he instantly looked to see if he could relieve it.
Finding the theme fertile, Amy Waring, looking, with tender eyes at her relative, continued.
And yet with all the freedom with which she told the story of Lawrence Newt’s large heart, there was an unusual softness and shyness in her appearance. The blithe glance was more drooping. The clear, ringing voice was lower. The words that generally fell with such a neat, crisp articulation from her lips now lingered upon them as if they were somehow honeyed, and so flowed more smoothly and more slowly. She told of her first encounter with Mr. Newt at the Widow Simmers’s—she told of all that she had heard from her cousin, Gabriel Bennet.