"I think I have been too long in the garden," I said. "I feel chilled by the cold evening air."
"Will you have some more wood put on the fire?" she asked. "Can I get you anything?"
"No, thank you. I shall do very well here. I see you are kindly ready to write for me."
"Yes," she said, "at your own convenience. When you are ready, my pen is ready."
The unacknowledged reserve that had come between us since we had last spoken together, was, I believe, as painfully felt by her as by me. We were no doubt longing to break through it on either side--if we had only known how. The writing of the letter would occupy us, at any rate. I made another effort to give my mind to the subject--and once more it was an effort made in vain. Knowing what I wanted to say to my mother, my faculties seemed to be paralyzed when I tried to say it. I sat cowering by the fire--and she sat waiting, with her writing-case on her lap.