ht," she said to him.

"I believe I am not generally considered to be lively," he answered, as
he knocked the snow of his boot.

"Still, I am sorry I spoke to you as I did," she went on frankly. "It
was foolish of me to mind what you said."

He made no reference to his own remark, and passing on his way again,
when he turned back and walked with her.

"I have been here nearly seven years," he said and there was a ring of
sadness in his voice as he spoke, which he immediately corrected. "If
you want to know anything about the place, I can tell you. If you are
able to walk, I can show you some lovely spots, where you will not be
bothered with people. I can take you to a snow fairy-land. If you are
sad and disappointed, you will find shining comfort there. It is not
all sadness in Petershof. In the silent snow forests, if you dig the
snow away, you will find the tiny buds nestling in their white nursery.
If the sun does not dazzle your eyes, you may always see the great
mountains piercing the sky. These wonders have been a happiness to me.
You are not too ill but that they may be a happiness to you also."

"Nothing can be much of a happiness to me," she said, half to herself,
and her lips quivered. "I have had to give up so much: all my work,
all my ambitions."

"You are not the only one who has had to do that," he said sharply.
"Why make a fuss? Things arrange themselves, and eventually we adjust
ourselves to the new arrangement. A great deal of caring and grieving,
phase one; still more caring and grieving, phase two; less caring and
grieving, phase three; no further feeling whatsoever, phase four.
Mercifully I am at phase four. You are at phase one. Make a quick
journey over the stages."

He turned and left her, and she strolled along, thinking of his words,
wondering how long it would take her to arrive at his indifference.
She had always looked upon indifference as paralysis of the soul, and
paralysis meant death, nay, was worse than death. And here was this man,
who had obviously suffered both mentally and physically, telling her
that the only sensible course was to learn not to care. How could she
learn not to care? All her life long she had studied and worked and
cultivated herself in every direction in the hope of being able to take
a high place in literature, or, in any case, to do something in life
distinctly better than what other people did. When everything was coming
near to her grasp, when there seem