The words died upon his lips.
“Forgive me—forgive me!” he said, with an air of surprise and sadness, and with a voice trembling with tenderness and respect. “She can not bear to give me the pain of plainly saying that she does not love me,” thought Lawrence; and he gently took her hand and laid her arm in his, as if to show that now they understood each other perfectly, and all was well.
“At least, Miss Amy,” he said, by-and-by, tranquilly, and with the old cheerfulness, “at least we shall be friends.”
Amy Waring bent her head and was silent. It seemed to her that she was suffocating, for his words apprised her how strangely he had mistaken her meaning.
They said nothing more. Arm in arm they passed up Broadway. Every moment Amy Waring supposed the merchant would take leave of her and return to his office. But every moment he was farther from doing it. Abel Newt and Grace Plumer passed them, and opened their eyes; and Grace said to Abel,
“How long has Amy Waring been engaged to your Uncle Lawrence?”
When they reached Amy’s door Lawrence Newt raised her hand, bent over it with quaint, courtly respect, held it a moment, then pressed it to his lips. He looked up at her. She was standing on the step; her full, dark eyes, swimming with moisture, were fixed upon his; her luxuriant hair curled over her clear, rich cheeks—youth, love, and beauty, they were all there. Lawrence Newt could hardly believe they were not all his. It was so natural to think so. Somehow he and Amy had grown together. He understood her perfectly.
“Perfectly?” he said to himself. “Why you are holding her hand; you are kissing it with reverence; you are looking into the face which is dearer and lovelier to you than all other human faces; and you are as far off as if oceans rolled between.”