“Beryl was as swift as a deer!” he exclaimed.  “You would have laughed to see her on the moor.  Ah, it was hard to give up all the thoughts of meeting her again.  They told me I should see her in heaven, but I did not care about heaven.  I wanted Beryl on earth, as I knew her, a merry laughing sister.  I think you are right:  we don’t forget; we become resigned in a dead, dull kind of way.”

Suddenly he said, “I don’t know why I have told you all this.  And yet it has been such a pleasure to me.  You are the only person to whom I could have spoken about myself, for no one else but you would have cared.”

“Don’t you think,” she said gently, “that you made a mistake in letting your experiences embitter you?  Because you had been unlucky in one or two instances it did not follow that all the world was against you.  Perhaps you unconsciously put yourself against all the world, and therefore saw every one in an unfavourable light.  It seems so easy to do that.  Trouble comes to most people, doesn’t it?  And your philosophy should have taught you to make the best of it.  At least, that is my notion of the value of philosophy.”

She spoke hesitatingly, as though she gave utterance to these words against her will.

“I am sure you are right, child,” he said, eagerly.

He put his hands to his eyes, but he could not keep back the tears.

“I have been such a lonely old man,” he sobbed; “no one can tell what a lonely, loveless life mine has been.  If I were not so old and so tired I should like to begin all over again.”

He sobbed for many minutes, and she did not know what to say to him of comfort; but she took his hand within her own, and gently caressed it, as one might do to a little child in pain.  He looked up and smiled through his tears.

“You have been very good to me,” he said, “and I dare say you have thought me ungrateful.  You mended my coat for me one morning, and not a day has passed but that I have looked at that darn and thought of you.  I liked to remember that you had done it for me.  But you have done far more than this for me:  you have put some sweetness into my life.  Whatever becomes of me hereafter, I shall never be able to think of my life on earth as anything but beautiful, because you thought kindly of me and acted kindly for me.  The other night, when this terrible pain came over me, I wished you were near me; I wished to hear your voice.  There is very beautiful music in your voice.”

“I would have come to you gladly,” she said, smiling quietly at him.  “You must make a promise that when you feel ill again you will send for me.  Then you will see what a splendid nurse I am, and how soon you will become strong and well under my care, strong enough to paint many more pictures, each one better than the last.  Now will you promise?”

“Yes,” he said, and he raised her hand reverently to his lips.

“You are not angry with me for doing that?” he asked, suddenly.  “I should not like to vex you.”