There was no reason.  And still she felt for them all, she who in the old days would have thought it waste of time to spare a moment’s reflection on anything so unimportant as the sufferings of an individual human being.

And the bridge between her former and her present self was her own illness.

What dull-minded sheep we must all be, how lacking in the very elements of imagination, since we are only able to learn by personal experience of grief and suffering, something about the suffering and grief of others!

Yea, how the dogs must wonder at us:  those dogs who know when we are in pain or trouble, and nestle nearer to us.

So Bernardine reached her own door.  She heard her name called, and, turning round, saw Mrs. Reffold.  There was a scared look on the beautiful face.

“Miss Holme,” she said, “I have been sent for—­I daren’t go to him alone—­I want you—­he is worse.  I am” . . .

Bernardine took her hand, and the two women hurried away in silence.

CHAPTER XVI.

WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE.

BERNARDINE had seen Mr. Reffold the previous day.  She had sat by his side and held his hand.  He had smiled at her many times, but he only spoke once.

“Little Brick,” he whispered—­for his voice had become nothing but a whisper.  “I remember all you told me.  God bless you.  But what a long time it does take to die.”

But that was yesterday.

The lane had come to an ending at last, and Mr. Reffold lay dead.

They bore him to the little mortuary chapel.  And Bernardine stayed with Mrs. Reffold, who seemed afraid to be alone.  She clung to Bernardine’s hand.

“No, no,” she said excitedly, “you must not go!  I can’t bear to be alone:  you must stay with me!”

She expressed no sorrow, no regret.  She did not even speak his name.  She just sat nursing her beautiful face.

Once or twice Bernardine tried to slip away.  This waiting about was a strain on her, and she felt that she was doing no good.

But each time Mrs. Reffold looked up and prevented her.

“No, no,” she said.  “I can’t bear myself without you.  I must have you near me.  Why should you leave me?”

So Bernardine lingered.  She tried to read a book which lay on the table.  She counted the lines and dots on the wall-paper.  She thought about the dead man; and about the living woman.  She had pitied him; but when she looked at the stricken face of his wife, Bernardine’s whole heart rose up in pity for her.  Remorse would come, although it might not remain long.  The soul would see itself face to face for one brief moment; and then forget its own likeness.

But for the moment—­what a weight of suffering, what a whole century of agony!

Bernardine grew very tender for Mrs. Reffold:  she bent over the sofa, and fondled the beautiful face.