say this because I wish you to know that nothing can make us love each
other less--that all this misery and separation--which may last as long
as we live--has made no difference and can make no difference to us. And
if I never see him again, or speak to him again, he will always be
certain that I am his--unalterably, for ever his."

"You are little more than a child. You have a great career before
you--who can say what may happen in the future? Women without careers
change their minds--their tastes. These things are out of one's own
control, and in your case----"

"My mind may change, but my soul cannot. I may dance, I may amuse
myself, I may have friends. Make no mistake. I can tell you all that is
in me. I find life beautiful. The theatre enchants me. I could work
there all day. I have no illusions about it--the paint, the machinery,
the box-office, the advertisements--the vulgarity are familiar enough to
me. But I find a box-office, and machinery, and vulgarity everywhere,
though they are called by other names."

Sara coloured and looked away.

"I am getting stronger now," continued Brigit. "I can lift up my head
and see the world as it is. I like it--yes, with all its griefs and its
horrors--I like it. When one is ill or sentimental one hates it, because
it wasn't made for the sick, and it was not created us a playground for
lovers. One may love--yes, but one must work. I intend to love and work
at the same time."

"Many find that these two occupations clash! There is a time in
love--just as there is a period in life--when it seems enough in itself.
It is independent of circumstances and persons. O, but that time soon
passes! As you learn more, you look for more. And work is no cure for
dissatisfaction. If you can live through it you will just be a machine
with one refrain--'I know nothing! I have nothing! I am nothing!'"

The two young girls did not look at each other. Brigit could recognise
an agitation of the soul in the imperceptible sadness of the voice, and
she guessed poor Sara's secret.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I must suffer all that. How can you be sure
that I have not suffered it already? At any rate, I hope this
confidence will increase your kindness toward me."

"I have no kindness toward you--none at all," said Sara. "I have no
kindness toward any living creature. I should like to die and come to an
end. I wasn't born to put up with make-shifts. Other women may be
resigned to that paltry wa