"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.
Winthrop bent his head suddenly, and lifting the hand, kissed
it; and then, without again speaking, walked quickly into the
hall and shut the door. In the room the dusk deepened. Through
the open windows came the roar of the Sixth Avenue Elevated, the
insistent clamor of an electric hansom, the murmur of Broadway
at night. The tears had suddenly ceased, but the girl had not
moved. At last, slowly, stiffly, she raised her head. Her eyes,
filled with wonder, with amazement, were fixed upon her hand.
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