light made her poor eyes strong for that.

She liked to sit there in the evenings, being alone, yet never
growing lonesome; there was so much that was pleasant to watch
and listen to, as the cool brown twilight came on. If, as
Knowles thought, the world was a dreary discord, she knew nothing
of it. People were going from their work now,--they had time to
talk and joke by the way,--stopping, or walking slowly down the
cool shadows of the pavement; while here and there a lingering
red sunbeam burnished a window, or struck athwart the gray
boulder-paved street. From the houses near you could catch a
faint smell of supper: very friendly people those were in these
houses; she knew them all well. The children came out with their
faces washed, to play, now the sun was down: the oldest of them
generally came to sit with her and hear a story.

After it grew darker, you would see the girls in their neat blue
calicoes go sauntering down the street with their sweethearts for
a walk. There was old Polston and his son Sam coming home from
the coal-pits, as black as ink, with their little tin lanterns on
their caps. After a while Sam would come out in his suit of
Kentucky jean, his face shining with the soap, and go sheepishly
down to Jenny Ball's, and the old man would bring his pipe and
chair out on the pavement, and his wife would sit on the steps.
Most likely they would call Lois down, or come over themselves,
for they were the most sociable, cosiest old couple you ever
knew. There was a great stopping at Lois's door, as the girls
walked past, for a bunch of the flowers she brought from the
country, or posies, as they called them, (Sam never would take
any to Jenny but "old man" and pinks,) and she always had them