to write my letter.

I brought the little student-lamp from my own room and lit it, and put
it on the library-table, and brought him some fresh pens, and opened the
inkstand for him, even pushed up the chair and put a little footstool by
it. Though he was standing by the bookshelves, and seemed to be
engrossed by them, I knew that he was watching me, filled with content
and satisfaction.

"Do you remember where that box of cigars was put?" he said, turning to
me as I paused. That was to keep me longer; for they were on the shelf,
half a yard from where he stood.

I got the cigar-box and put it on the table.

"Now you will want some matches, and this stand is almost empty." So I
took it away with me to my room, and came back with it filled.

"Is there anything else that I can do?" I said, pausing as I put it on
the table.

"No, Pauline. I believe not. Thank you."

I think that moment Richard was nearer to happiness than he had ever
been before. Poor fellow!

I went down-stairs, feeling quite easy in mind, and sat down to my
letter. That threw me back into the past, for to Sister Madeline I
poured out my heart. An hour went by, and I had forgotten Richard and
the library. I was recalled to the present by hearing some books fall on
the floor (the library was over the parlor); and by hearing Richard's
step heavily crossing the room. I started up, pushed my letter into my
portfolio, and wiped away my tears, quite frightened that Richard should
see me crying. To my surprise, he came hurriedly down the stairs, passed
the parlor-door, opened the hall-door, and shutting it heavily after
him, was gone, without a word to me. This startled me for a moment, it
was so unusual. But my heart was not enough engaged to be wounded by the
slight, and I very soon returned to my letter and my other thoughts.

When I went up to bed, I stopped in the library, and found the lamp
still burning, the pens unused, a cigar, which had been lighted, but
unsmoked, lying on the table. A book was lying on the floor at the foot
of the bookshelf, where I had left Richard standing. I picked it up.
"This was the last book that Uncle Leonard ever read," I said to myself,
turning its pages over. I remembered that he had it in his hand the last
night of his life, when I bade him goodnight. I was not in the room the
next day, till he was brought home in a dying state.

Ann had put the books in order, and arranged them, after he went
down-town in the