saw him constantly, and he was always doing little things for her with a
divination of her unexpressed desires which women find too rarely in men.
He brought her flowers, which, after refusing them for Mrs. Maynard the
first time, she accepted for herself. He sometimes brought her books, the
light sort which form the sentimental currency of young people, and she
lent them round among the other ladies, who were insatiable of them. She
took a pleasure in these attentions, as if they had been for some one
else. In this alien sense she liked to be followed up with a chair to the
point where she wished to sit; to have her hat fetched, or her shawl; to
drop her work or her handkerchief, secure that it would be picked up for
her.

It all interested her, and it was a relief from the circumstances that
would have forbidden her to recognize it as gallantry, even if her own
mind had not been so far from all thought of that. His kindness followed
often upon some application of hers for his advice or help, for she had
fallen into the habit of going to him with difficulties. He had a prompt
common sense that made him very useful in emergencies, and a sympathy or
an insight that was quick in suggestions and expedients. Perhaps she
overrated other qualities of his in her admiration of the practical
readiness which kept his amiability from seeming weak. But the practical
had so often been the unattainable with her that it was not strange she
should overrate it, and that she should rest upon it in him with a trust
that included all he chose to do in her behalf.

"What is the matter, Mr. Libby?" she asked, as he came toward her.

"Is anything the matter?" he demanded in turn.

"Yes; you are looking downcast," she cried reproachfully.