remembering
much happiness and simplicity here, she was so grieved for one at
least who dwelt here that her eyes were full of tears.

Joost saw them when, on the stopping of the carriage, she turned. "Do
not weep," he said; "you must not weep for me."

"I am so sorry," she said; "so dreadfully sorry!"

"But you must not be," he told her; "there is no need."

"There is every need; you have been so kind to me, so good; you have
almost taught me--though you don't know it--some goodness too, and in
return I have brought you nothing but sadness."

"Ah, yes, sadness," he said; "but gladness too, and the gladness is
more than the sadness. Would you not sooner know the fine even though
you cannot attain to it, than be content with the little all your
life? I would, and it is that which you have given me. It is I who
give nothing--"

He hesitated as if for a moment at a loss, and she had no words to
fill in the pause.

"Will you take this?" he said, half thrusting something forward. "It
is, perhaps, not much to some, but I would like you to have it; it
seems fitting; I think I owe it to you, and you to it."

"Oh, yes, yes," she murmured, hardly hearing and not grasping the last
words; there was something choking in her throat; it was this strange,
humble, disinterested love, so new to her, which brought it there and
prevented her from understanding.

She stretched out her hands, and he put something into them; then he
stepped back, and the carriage drove on. It was not till the gateway
was passed that she realised what it was she held--a small bag made
of the greyish-brown paper used on a bulb farm; inside, a single bulb;
and outside, written, according to the invariable custom of growers--

"Narcissus Triandrus Azureum Vrouw Van Heigen."

CHAPTER XI

A REPRIEVE

Rawson-Clew was reading a letter. It was breakfast time; the letter
had missed the afternoon post yesterday, which was what the writer
would have wished, and so was not delivered at the hotel till the
morning. It was short, from the beginning--"I am so glad you have done
it," to the end of the postscript--"this is to-morrow, so good-bye."
There was not much to read; yet he looked at it for some time. Did
ever man receive such a refusal to an offer of marriage? It was almost
absurd, and perhaps hardly flattering, yet somehow characteristic of
the writer; Rawson-Clew recognised that now, though it had surprised
him none the less. What was to