e been impossible for him to let the poor little
shell-maker take upon herself his burden, and free him of it and set him
right again in his own eyes.

"I know that I love her now," he said to himself.

And he was right. There are secret humiliations to which no man would
submit, as such, but from which love, when it is real, can take away the
sting and the poison. The man of heart, who does not love but is loved in
spite of himself, fears to accept a sacrifice, lest in so doing he should
seem to declare his readiness to do as he is done by, from like motives.
But when love is on both sides there is no such drawing back from love's
responsibilities. The sacrifice is accepted not only with gratitude, but
with joy, as a debt of which the repayment by sacrifice again constitutes
in itself a happiness. And thus, perhaps, it is that they love best who
love in sorrow and in want, in worldly poverty and in distress of soul,
for they alone can know what joy it is to receive, and what yet infinitely
greater joy lies in giving all when all is sorely needed.

But as the Count dwelt on the circumstances he saw also what it was that
Vjera had done, and he wondered how she could have found the strength to
do it. He did not, indeed, say to himself that for his sake she had parted
with her only beauty, for he had never considered whether she were
good-looking or not. The bond between them was of a different nature, and
would not have been less strong had Vjera been absolutely ugly instead of
being merely, what is called, plain. He would have loved her as well, had
she been a cripple, or deformed, just as she loved him in spite of his
madness. But he knew well enough how women, even the most wretched, value
their hair when it is beautiful, what care they bestow upon it and what
consolation they derive from the rich, silken coil denied to fairer women
than themselves. There is something in the thought of cutting off the
heavy tress and selling it which appeals to the pity of most people, and
which, to women themselves, is full of horror. A man might have felt the
same in those days when long locks were the distinctive outward sign of
nobility in man, and perhaps the respect of that obsolete custom has left
in the minds of most people a sort of unconscious tradition. However that
may be, we all feel that in one direction, at least, a woman's sacrifice
can go no further than in giving her head to the shears.

The longer the Count thought