Lilly bowed—she could not trust herself to speak—and went away.
Dr. Starkey walked up and down his office several times, raised and lowered the flame of the lamp, poked the fire, looked out into the starlit night, and, with a fervent "Bless my soul! how extraordinary!" settled himself for his customary nap over the Boston paper.
Lilly hurried home through the silent streets. Miss Bullins's shop was empty of customers, and she herself, her hair bristling with crimping-pins and curl-papers, was putting things in order for the night. She studied Lilly's face with watchful anxiety, as she joined in her labors.
"I hope to gracious she aint comin' down sick!" she reflected. "You aint got backache and pains in your limbs, have you?" she inquired, with thinly veiled anxiety.
Lilly laughed.
"No, Miss Bullins; nothing of the kind."
"I thought you looked kind o' queer," said the good creature, coloring.
"I am only a little tired; not sick."
She came and stood by the old maid's chair, as she sat warming her feet at the stove, and laid her hand on the thin gray hair.
"Good-night, Miss Bullins."