Thus I closed my musings. “Good-night” left my lips in sound; I heard the words spoken, and then I heard an echo—quite close.
“Good-night, Mademoiselle; or, rather, good-evening—the sun is scarce set; I hope you slept well?”
I started, but was only discomposed a moment; I knew the voice and speaker.
“Slept, Monsieur! When? where?”
“You may well inquire when—where. It seems you turn day into night, and choose a desk for a pillow; rather hard lodging—?”
“It was softened for me, Monsieur, while I slept. That unseen, gift-bringing thing which haunts my desk, remembered me. No matter how I fell asleep; I awoke pillowed and covered.”
“Did the shawls keep you warm?”
“Very warm. Do you ask thanks for them?”
“No. You looked pale in your slumbers: are you home-sick?”
“To be home-sick, one must have a home; which I have not.”