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 for my mother's sake," he said.

"Then you will go there now for my sake," she said deliberately.

He looked up quickly my little

"Little Bernardine," he cried, "my Little Bernardine--is it possible
that you care what becomes of me?"

She had been leaning against the counter, and now she raised herself,
and stood erect, a proud, dignified little figure.

"Yes, I do care," she said simply, and with true earnestness. "I care
with all my heart. And even if I did not care, you know you would not
be free. No one is free. You know that better than I do. We do not
belong to ourselves: there are countless people depending on us, people
whom we have never seen, and whom we never shall see. What we do,
decides what they will be."

He still did not speak.

"But it is not for those others that I plead," she continued. "I plead
for myself. I can't spare you, indeed, indeed I can't spare you! . . ."

Her voice trembled, but she went on bravely:

"So you will go back to the mountains," she said. "You will live out
your life like a man. Others may prove themselves cowards, but the
Disagreeable Man has a better part to play."

He still did not speak. Was it that he could not trust himself to words?
But in that brief time, the thoughts which passed through his mind were
such as to overwhelm him. A picture rose up before him: a picture of a
man and woman leading their lives together, each happy in the other's
love; not a love born of fancy, but a love based on comradeship and true
understanding of the soul. The picture faded, and the Disagreeable Man
raised his eyes and looked at the little figure standing near him.

"Little child, little child," he said wearily, "since it is your wish,
I will go back to the mountains."

Then he bent over the counter, and put his hand on hers.

"I will come and see you to-morrow," he said. "I think there are one or
two things I want to say to you."

The next moment he was gone.

In the afternoon of that same day Bernardine went to the City. She was
not unhappy: she had been making plans for herself. She would work hard,
and fill her life as full as possible. There should be no room for
unhealthy thought. She would go and spend her holidays in Petershof.
There would be pleasure in that for him and for her. She would tell him
so to-morrow. She knew he would be glad.

"Above all," she said to herself, "there shall be no room for unhealthy
thought. I must cultivate my garden."

That was what she was thinking of at four in the afternoon: how she
could best cultivate her garden.

At five she was lying unconscious in the accident-ward of the New
Hospital: she had been knocked down by a waggon, and terribly injured.

She will not recover, the Doctor said to the nurse. "You see she is
sinking rapidly. Poor little thing!"

At six she regained consciousness, and opened her eyes. The nurse bent
over her. Then she whispered:

"Tell the Disagreeable Man how I wish I could have seen him to-morrow.
We had so much to say to each other. And now . . ."

The brown eyes looked at the nurse so entreatingly. It was a long time
before she could forget the pathos of those brown eyes.

A few minutes later, she made another sign as though she wished to
speak.  Nurse Katharine bent nearer. Then she whispered:

"Tell the Disagreeable Man to go back to the mountains, and begin to
build his bridge: it must be strong and . . ."

Bernardine died.


CHAPTER V.

THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE.


ROBERT ALLITSEN came to the old book-shop to see Zerviah Holme before
returning to the mountains. He found him reading Gibbon. These two men
had stood by Bernardine's grave.

"I was beginning to know her," the old man said.

"I have always known her," the young man said. "I cannot remember a
time when she has not been part of my life."

"She loved you," Zerviah said. "She was telling me so the very morning
when you came."

Then, with a tenderness which was almost foreign to him, Zerviah told
Robert Allitsen how Bernardine had opened her heart to him. She had
never loved any one before: but she had loved the Disagreeable Man.

"I did not love him because I was sorry for him," she had said. "I
loved him for himself."

Those were her very words.

"Thank you," said the Disagreeable Man. "And God bless you for telling
me."

Then he added:

"There were some few loose sheets of paper on the counter. She had
begun her book. May I have them?"

Zerviah placed them in his hand.

"And this photograph," the old man said kindly. "I will spare it for
you."

The picture of the little thin eager face was folded up with the papers.

The two men parted.

Zerviah Holme went back to his Roman History. The Disagreeable Man went
back to the mountains: to live his life out there, and to build his
bridge, as we all do, whether consciously or unconsciously. If it
breaks down, we build it again.

"We will build it stronger this time," we say to ourselves.

So we begin once more.

We are very patient.

And meanwhile the years pass.



THE END