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.
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