"By Jove!" he exclaimed nervously, "I had no idea I'd stayed so
long. You'll not let me come again. Goodbye -- until tomorrow."
He turned, holding out his hand, and found that again the girl
had dropped her face upon her arm, and was sobbing quietly,
gently.

"Oh, what is it?" cried Winthrop. "What have I said?" The catch
in the girl's voice as she tried to check the sobs wrenched his
heart. "Oh, please," he begged, "I've said something wrong? I've
hurt you?" With her face still hidden in her arms, the girl
shook her head.

"No, no!" she sobbed. Her voice, soft with tears, was a melody
of sweet and tender tones. "It's only -- that I've been so
lonely -- and you've made me happy, happy!"

The sobs broke out afresh, but Winthrop, now knowing that they
brought to the girl peace, was no longer filled with dismay.

Her head was bent upon her left arm, her right hand lightly
clasped the edge of the table. With the intention of saying
farewell, Winthrop took her hand in his. The girl did not move.
To his presence she seemed utterly oblivious. In the gathering
dusk he could see the bent figure, could hear the soft,
irregular breathing as the girl wept gently, happily, like a
child sobbing itself to sleep. The hand he held in his neither
repelled nor invited, and for an instant he stood motionless,
holding it uncertainly. It was so delicate, so helpless, so
appealing, so altogether lovable. It seemed to reach up, and,
with warm, clinging fingers, clutch the tendrils of his heart.