February passed away without incident, then March, and by the middle of April, spring had begun her gay unfurling in the parks. And on one day, Mama nodded when I asked if I might walk out, and then another day, and a third. The blast of the old ferry, the sweet smoke from the sugar refinery blown into the air above the river—life! I recalled what Mr. Hunnowell had said a little bitterly to his mother—that he could only observe. And with an unexpected surge of sympathy, I wished I could tell him how mighty I thought it was to be an observer after all. For one could lose oneself in the aimless city tide: its people and my footsteps merging and convening, and then one could see best. All seemed to swing wide round me. Wide and sad all at once, for though I had grown accustomed to Papa’s absence in the house, out-of-doors, he became an everywhere: a man turning the corner out of sight, a catch of a favorite tune of Papa’s whistled between a taximan’s teeth, the rain falling upon the slack waters of the East River, and then the great bridge stretching away from me toward Manhattan, magnificent in the late afternoon, the steady approach of city men crossing to where I waited, as I used to do at this time for Papa. And there was Papa striding toward me once again. His top hat gleamed in the spring light, though the angle blotted out his dear face as he came through the bright spot toward me with a grave smile upon his lips.

“Oh,” I whispered with a start. “Mr. Lanman.”

“Miss Thomas.” He smiled. “How nice.” And he held out his arm. He appeared very tall. I had forgotten. I took his proffered arm.

We spoke little on that spring afternoon, but it was a comfort to rest my hand upon his arm, just as an ordinary girl might do; a comfort to answer his quiet questions as he steered us expertly through the streets homeward. And, I remembered, he had been a kind correspondent during the days before Papa died.

And when, on the following evening, Jessie appeared at the door to ask whether we would receive a Mr. Lanman and his mother, I smiled at Mama; it would be a pleasant change from our solitary evenings. “We will indeed,” my mother pronounced, slightly stressing the final word, and followed Jessie into the hall to greet the Lanmans and direct the drying of their damp garments.

“Hello again, Miss Thomas.” He smiled. And before I could reply, his mother took my hand and pressed it hard between her own. “My dear,” she whispered, “I have been so sorry indeed for your poor mother and yourself.”

“Please. Sit down. Mrs. Lanman, come sit here by the fire across from me.”