“And aren't you going to bind books any more?” exclaimed the little dressmaker, a shade of disappointment in her manner. “I thought you always did about four o'clock. I used to hear you when I was making tea.” It hardly seemed possible to Miss Baker that she was actually talking to Old Grannis, that the two were really chatting together, face to face, and without the dreadful embarrassment that used to overwhelm them both when they met on the stairs. She had often dreamed of this, but had always put it off to some far-distant day. It was to come gradually, little by little, instead of, as now, abruptly and with no preparation. That she should permit herself the indiscretion of actually intruding herself into his room had never so much as occurred to her. Yet here she was, IN HIS ROOM, and they were talking together, and little by little her embarrassment was wearing away. “Yes, yes, I always heard you when you were making tea,” returned the old Englishman; “I heard the tea things. Then I used to draw my chair and my work-table close to the wall on my side, and sit there and work while you drank your tea just on the other side; and I used to feel very near to you then. I used to pass the whole evening that way.” “And, yes--yes--I did too,” she answered. “I used to make tea just at that time and sit there for a whole hour.” “And didn't you sit close to the partition on your side? Sometimes I was sure of it. I could even fancy that I could hear your dress brushing against the wall-paper close beside me. Didn't you sit close to the partition?” “I--I don't know where I sat.” Old Grannis shyly put out his hand and took hers as it lay upon her lap. “Didn't you sit close to the partition on your side?” he insisted. “No--I don't know--perhaps--sometimes. Oh, yes,” she exclaimed, with a little gasp, “Oh, yes, I often did.” Then Old Grannis put his arm about her, and kissed her faded cheek, that flushed to pink upon the instant. After that they spoke but little. The day lapsed slowly into twilight, and the two old people sat there in the gray evening, quietly, quietly, their hands in each other's hands, “keeping company,” but now with nothing to separate them. It had come at last. After all these years they were together; they understood each other. They stood at length in a little Elysium of their own creating. They walked hand in hand in a delicious garden where it was always autumn. Far from the world and together they entered upon the long retarded romance of their commonplace and uneventful lives. CHAPTER 18 That same night McTeague was awakened by a shrill scream, and woke to find Trina's arms around his neck. She was trembling so that the bed-springs creaked. “Huh?” cried the dentist, sitting up in bed, raising his clinched fists. “Huh? What? What? What is it? What is it?”