ferent person from the stormy and incomprehensible Rickman
who for more than two years had struggled so madly in her toils. And
if, to the eye of Mrs. Downey, Flossie appeared untouched by the
really heartrending pathos of his attitude in sleep; beholding unmoved
his huddled boyish form under the blankets, one half-naked arm laid
slack along the bed, the other thrust out straight into the cold
outside it; if she left Mrs. Downey to cover the poor fellow up,
wondering why on earth the girl could sit there and never do it; if,
when he woke, she missed the extreme poignancy of appeal in the
murmurs that followed her as she went Beaver-like about her business
in the room, it may be that in that unaccustomed service the hidden
prescient motherhood in her was awakened and appeased (Flossie being
still under the dominion of her dream). As yet it struggled blindly
with her invincible propriety; a struggle poor Rickman was made aware
of by the half-averted manner of her approaches, the secrecy and
hesitation of her touch. But the little clerk undoubtedly found that
patting pillows, straightening coverlets, and making mustard plasters,
was an employment more satisfying to her nature than the perpetual
handling of bank notes. And to Rickman lying there with his hungry
heart filled for the time quite full with its own humility and
gratitude, lying in a helplessness that had in it something soothing
and agreeable, feeling the soft shy woman's hands about his bed,
following with affectionate, remorseful eyes her coming and going, or
watching as she sat patiently mending his socks, it came with the
freshness of a new discovery that she was, after all, a very engaging
little Beaver. He had never for one instant glorified his love for
her; he understood it too thoroughly. It was love as Nature loves to
have it; honest enough, too, but of its kind singularly devoid of any
inspiring quality. Flossie had never moved him to the making of
sonnets or of songs. Moreover, he had discovered in her a certain
lack of tenderness, or of the outward signs of tenderness. Not but
what Flossie commanded all the foolish endearing language of young
love; only she was apt to lavish it on little details of attire, on
furniture, on things seen in shop-windows and passionately desired.
But there was something very transfiguring in the firelight of his
bedroom hearth. As he lay in it, enjoying the pure sweet foretaste of
domestic felicity, it was as if he saw m