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The end table was gorgeous. Ornately carved out of a heavy wood with a marble top, it sat on the side of Kemp Road with other household items begging to be rescued, so I pulled over.

And so did she.

We jumped out of our cars and walked over to the table. She was maybe 60 and impeccably dressed.

"Please tell me you don't want this old thing," she said.

"Actually I do," I replied. "It's nice, isn't it?"

She didn't answer, such was her focus on examining the table. She even asked me to lift it for her so she could check it out underneath.

Finally she spoke. "Would you take $10 to let me have this?"

I countered: "How about I give you $20 to walk away?"

She seemed to get upset. "I'll give you $30 but you have to take it to my house."

I could see my kids in the truck absorbing all of this so I backed off.

"Deal," I said, and put the table in my truck.

Three blocks later we were at her house.

The woman held open her front door and I carried the table inside.

She hurried into the living room. "Just put it right here," she said, standing next to her sagging gold couch.

And then I saw it: The exact same table on the other end of the couch.

"Isn't that incredible?" she said. "I gave up trying to find a matching one years ago. I saw this when I was walking this morning. I almost ran home to get my car. I'm so thrilled."

"Will you take a check?" she said.

I nodded.

On the way home I thought about it: Who was I to make her pay for such joy? I tore up the check when we got home.