better analogy, and she resolved to remedy that as soon as she was able. She added another volume—'something concerning the heavens' she called it—to the list of books she thought she really must read. 

 Gretchen bustled, thinking these thoughts, dreading her next birthday. She blew softly on a wisp of auburn hair that had somehow escaped from the green ribbon with which she tied it back that morning. Several strands had somehow got into her mouth but her arms were too full of books—heavy tomes, all—to pull them away with her fingers. She was on the verge of setting down the burden and tending to her hair for a moment when, as she turned a corner into the next row, a shadow fell across the topmost book in her arms. She glanced up in surprise. A man stood mere inches in front of her—and looked up to find her bearing down upon him with a full head of steam—even as he stepped toward her. 

 "Oh!" she cried, attempting to stop herself. The books slid irretrievably from her grasp, their pages flying open with a flutter. 

 The man's arms shot out.  "The books!" came his cry of astonishment as they tumbled about him. He tried to catch a few, left and then right, but alas they fell—all but one—to the floor with a dull clatter. 

 "Oh dear," Gretchen whispered, looking down. She feared she had bent a few pages, and putting a hand to her mouth knelt immediately to gather them all.  "I'm terribly sorry, sir," she continued in a rush as she piled books one after the other.  "My clumsiness..." 

 "Think nothing of it, Miss," the man replied lightly.  "It's my fault. I do hope _you_ were not harmed by _my_ clumsiness..." He knelt then, and began to place books upon her stack, starting with the volume he had saved from falling. The lucky book was one of the late Mr. Darwin's, and when he glanced momentarily at the spine she blushed deeply despite herself—for she had that day finished reading it, and was returning it to its rightful place. She knew that he had seen her cheeks color. 

 Gretchen looked around, and seeing there were no more stray books, prepared to pick up the stack again. She stood up to catch her breath and smooth her wool skirt, arching back her shoulders. Looking down at the man, she finally remembered to blow the wisp of hair from her face. He was looking up at her and positively beaming—clean-shaven and light complected, she noted—but the smile faded almost instantly to a faint curling about the corners of his lips. 

 "Please accept my 

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