I hurry over this, and go into the little sitting-room. There is a tray, with a glass of milk and some oaten cakes, upon the table. I am too disturbed to sit down; I stand at the window and watch the bats flitter in the gathering moonlight, and listen with quivering nerves for her step; perhaps she will send for the tray, and not come after all. What a fool I am to be disturbed by a gray-clad witch with a tantalizing mouth! That comes of loafing about doing nothing. I mentally darn the old fool who saved her money instead of spending it. Why the devil should I be bothered? I don't want it anyhow. She comes in as I fume, and I forget everything at her entrance. I push the arm-chair toward the table, and she sinks quietly into it, pulling the tray nearer. She has a wedding-ring on; but somehow it never strikes me to wonder if she is married or a widow, or who she may be. I am content to watch her break her biscuit; she has the prettiest hands, and a trick of separating her last fingers when she takes hold of anything: they remind me of white orchids I saw somewhere. She led me to talk,--about Africa, I think. I liked to watch her eyes glow deeply in the shadow and then catch light as she bent forward to say something in her quick responsive way. "Long ago when I was a girl," she said once. "Long ago?" I echo incredulously,--"not surely?" "Ah, but yes; you haven't seen me in the daylight," with a soft little laugh. "Do you know what the gypsies say? 'Never judge a woman or a ribbon by candle-light.' They might have said moonlight equally well." She rises as she speaks, and I feel an overpowering wish to have her put out her hand. But she does not; she only takes the work-basket and a book, and says "good-night" with an inclination of her little head. I go over and stand next her chair; I don't like to sit in it, but I like to put my hand where her head leant, and fancy, if she were there, how she would look up.