For three days past we have been having damp, chilly weather. Dusk has fallen early. This evening, after tea, the Captain went into town,--on business, as he said: I believe, to attend some Poorhouse or Hospital Board. Esther and I went into the parlor. The room seemed cold. She brought in the lamp from the dining-room, and proposed we should have a little fire. I went into the kitchen, procured an armful of wood, and while she drew the curtains and wheeled up the table, I kindled a lively, crackling blaze. A fortnight ago she would not have allowed me to do this without a protest. She would not have offered to do it herself,--not she!--but she would have said that I was not here to serve, but to be served, and would have pretended to call Dorothy. Of course I should have had my own way. But we have changed all that. Esther went to her piano, and I sat down to a book. I read not a word. I sat looking at my mistress, and thinking with a very uneasy heart. For the first time in our friendship, she had put on a dark, warm dress: I think it was of the material called alpaca. The first time I saw her she wore a white dress with a purple neck-ribbon; now she wore a black dress with the same ribbon. That is, I remember wondering, as I sat there eyeing her, whether it was the same ribbon, or merely another like it. My heart was in my throat; and yet I thought of a number of trivialities of the same kind. At last I spoke. "Miss Blunt," I said, "do you remember the first evening I passed beneath your roof, last June?" "Perfectly," she replied, without stopping. "You played this same piece." "Yes; I played it very badly, too. I only half knew it. But it is a showy piece, and I wished to produce an effect. I didn't know then how indifferent you are to music." "I paid no particular attention to the piece. I was intent upon the performer." "So the performer supposed." "What reason had you to suppose so?" "I'm sure I don't know. Did you ever know a woman to be able to give a reason, when she has guessed aright?" "I think they generally contrive to make up a reason, afterwards. Come, what was yours?" "Well, you _stared_ so hard." "Fie! I don't believe it. That's unkind." "You said you wished me to invent a reason. If I really had one, I don't remember it." "You told me you remembered the occasion in question perfectly." "I meant the circumstances. I remember what we had for tea; I remember what dress I wore. But I don't remember my feelings. They were naturally not very memorable." "What did you say, when your father proposed my coming?" "I asked how much you would be willing to pay." "And then?" "And then, if you looked 'respectable'." "And then?" "That was all. I told father that he could do as he pleased." She continued to play. Leaning back in my chair, I continued to look at her. There was a considerable pause. "Miss Esther," said I, at last. "Yes."