his desk:

"CHAFING-DISH, n. That out of which Miss Noah asks Mr. Webster to
eat his Sunday night lunch tomorrow. All the other Miss Noahs are
going to be away, and if Mr. Webster does not come, Miss Noah will
be all alone. Miss Noah does not like to be lonely."

She ate no lunch that day; she only drank a cup of coffee and walked
around.

He did not come back that afternoon. It passed from one to two, from
two to three, and then very slowly from three to four, and still he
had not come.

He too was walking about. He had walked down to the lake and was
standing there looking out across it.

Why not?--he was saying to himself--fiercely, doggedly. Over and
over again--Well, _why_ not?

A hundred nights, alone in his room, he had gone over it. Had not
life used him hard enough to give him a little now?--longing had
pleaded. And now there was a new voice--more prevailing voice--the
voice of her happiness. His face softened to an almost maternal
tenderness as he listened to that voice.

Too worn to fight any longer, he gave himself up to it, and sat
there dreaming. They were dreams of joy rushing in after lonely
years, dreams of stepping into the sunlight after long days in fog
and cold, dreams of a woman before a fireplace--her arms about him,