“But what of her,” she asked regretfully of the old grey-haired man; “must she be left?”

“She will learn,” the old man whispered.  “She is learning already.  Come, now:  we must not linger.”

So she of the new name passed into the Presence-Chamber.

But the Sovereign said: 

“The world needs you, dear and honoured worker.  You know your real name:  do not heed what the world may call you.  Go back and work, but take with you this time unconquerable hope.”

So she went back and worked, taking with her unconquerable hope, and the sweet remembrance of the Sovereign’s words, and the gracious music of her Real Name.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM.

THE morning after Bernardine began her book, she and old Zerviah were sitting together in the shop.  He had come from the little inner room where he had been reading Gibbon for the last two hours.  He still held the volume in his hand; but he did not continue reading, he watched her arranging the pages of a dilapidated book.

Suddenly she looked up from her work.

“Uncle Zerviah,” she said brusquely, “you have lived through a long life, and must have passed through many different experiences.  Was there ever a time when you cared for people rather than books?”

“Yes,” he answered a little uneasily.  He was not accustomed to have questions asked of him.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“It was long ago,” he said half dreamily, “long before I married Malvina.  And she died.  That was all.”

“That was all,” repeated Bernardine, looking at him wonderingly.  Then she drew nearer to him.

“And you have loved, Uncle Zerviah?  And you were loved?”

“Yes, indeed,” he answered, softly.

“Then you would not laugh at me if I were to unburden my heart to you?”

For answer, she felt the touch of his old hand on her head.  And thus encouraged, she told him the story of the Disagreeable Man.  She told him how she had never before loved any one until she loved the Disagreeable Man.

It was all very quietly told, in a simple and dignified manner:  nevertheless, for all that, it was an unburdening of her heart; her listener being an old scholar who had almost forgotten the very name of love.

She was still talking, and he was still listening, when the shop door creaked.  Zerviah crept quietly away, and Bernardine looked up.

The Disagreeable Man stood at the counter.

“You little thing,” he said, “I have come to see you.  It is eight years since I was in England.”

Bernardine leaned over the counter.

“And you ought not to be here now,” she said, looking at his thin face.  He seemed to have shrunk away since she had last seen him.

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