e she had last seen him.

"I am free to do what I choose," he said. "My mother is dead."

"I know." Bernardine said gently. "But you are not free."

He made no answer to that, but slipped into the chair.

"You look tired," he said. "What have you been doing?"

"I have been dusting the books," she answered, smiling at him. "You
remember you told me I should be content to do that. The very oldest
and shabbiest have had my tenderest care. I found the shop in disorder.
You see it now."

"I should not call it particularly tidy now," he said grimly. "Still,
I suppose you have done your best. Well, and what else?"

"I have been trying to take care of my old uncle," she said. "We are
just beginning to understand each other a little. And he is beginning
to feel glad to have me. When I first discovered that, the days became
easier to me. It makes us into dignified persons when we find out that
there is a place for us to fill."

"Some people never find it out," he said.

"Probably, like myself, they went on for a long time, without caring,"
she answered. "I think I have had more luck than I deserve."

"Well," said the Disagreeable Man. "And you are glad to take up your
life again?"

"No," she said quietly. "I have not got as far as that yet. But I
believe that after some little time I may be glad. I hope so, I am
working for that. Sometimes I begin to have a keen interest in
everything. I wake up with an enthusiasm. After about two hours I have
lost it again."

"Poor little child," he said tenderly. "I, too know what that is. But
you _will_ get back to gladness: not the same kind of satisfaction as
before; but some other satisfaction, that compensation which is said
to be included in the scheme."

"And I have begun my book," she said, pointing to a few sheets lying on
the counter: that is to say, I have written the Prologue."

"Then the dusting of the books has not sufficed?" he said, scanning her
curiously.

"I wanted not to think of myself," Bernardine, said. "Now that I have
begun it, I shall enjoy going on with it. I hope it will be a companion
to me."

"I wonder whether you will make a failure or a success of it?" he
remarked. "I wish I could have seen."

"So you will," she said. "I shall finish it, and you will read it in
Petershof."

"I shall not be going back to Petershof," he said. "Why should I go
there now?"

"For the same reason that you went there eight years ago," she said.

"I went there f