“Indeed, Aunt Martha, I should like to have every body think of me as kindly as he thinks of every body.”
She had been speaking for some time. When she stopped, Aunt Martha said, quietly,
“But, Amy, although you have told me how charitable he is, you have not told me why he wanted to come here because he saw you at the window.”
“I suppose,” replied Amy, “it was because he thought there must be somebody to relieve here.”
“Don’t you suppose he thinks there is somebody to relieve in the next house, and the next, and has been ever since he has had an office in South Street?”
Amy felt very warm, and replied, carelessly, that she thought it was quite likely.
“I have plenty of time to think up here, my child,” continued Aunt Martha. “God is so good that He has spared my reason, and I have satisfied myself why Lawrence Newt wanted to come here.”
Amy sat without replying, as if she were listening to distant music. Her head drooped slightly forward; her hands were clasped in her lap; the delicate color glimmered upon her cheek, now deepening, now paling. The silence was exquisite, but she must break it.
“Why?” said she, in a low voice.
“Because he loves you, Amy,” said the dark woman, as her busy fingers stitched without pausing.