lusions.

Bernardine bought a paper for herself every day; but one evening she
came in without one. She had been seeing after some teaching, and had
without any difficulty succeeded in getting some temporary light work
at one of the high schools. She forgot to buy her newspaper.

The old man noticed this. He put on his shabby felt hat, and went down
the street, and brought in a copy of the _Daily News_.

"I don't remember what you like, but will this do?" he asked.

He was quite proud of himself for showing her this attention, almost as
proud as the Disagreeable Man, when he did something kind and thoughtful.

Bernardine thought of him, and the tears came into her eyes at once.
When did she not think of him? Then she glanced at the front sheet, and
in the death column her eye rested on his name: and she read that Robert
Allitsen's mother had passed away. So the Disagreeable Man had won his
freedom at last. His words echoed back to her:

"But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt anything else, I have
learnt how to wait. And some day I shall be free. And then . . ."

CHAPTER Il.

BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK.

AFTER the announcement of Mrs. Allitsen's death, Bernardine lived in a
misery of suspense. Every day she scanned the obituary, fearing to find
the record of another death, fearing and yet wishing to know. The
Disagreeable Man had yearned for his freedom these many years, and now
he was at liberty to do what he chose with his poor life. It was of no
value to him. Many a time she sat and shuddered. Many a time she began
to write to him. Then she remembered that after all he had cared nothing
for her companionship. He would not wish to hear from her. And besides,
what had she to say to him?

A feeling of desolation came over her. It was not enough for her to take
care of the old man who was drawing nearer to her every day; nor was it
enough for her to dust the books, and serve any chance customers who
might look in. In the midst of her trouble she remembered some of her
old ambitions; and she turned to them for comfort as we turn to old
friends.

"I will try to begin my book," she said to herself. "If I can only get
interested in it, I shall forget my anxiety!"

But the love of her work had left her. Bernardine fretted. She sat in
the old bookshop, her pen unused, her paper uncovered. She was very
miserable.

Then one evening when she was feeling that it was of no use trying to
force herself to