“I have long ceased to build my bridge,” the Disagreeable Man said.

“It is an almost unconscious process,” she said.  “Perhaps you are still at work, or perhaps you are resting.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and the two comrades fell into silence again.

They were within two miles of Petershof, when he broke the silence:  there was something wonderfully gentle in his voice.

“You little thing,” he said, “we are nearing home, and I have something to ask you.  It is easier for me to ask here in the free open country, where the space seems to give us breathing room for our cramped lungs and minds!”

“Well,” she said kindly; she wondered what he could have to say.

“I am a little nervous of offending you,” he continued, “and yet I trust you.  It is only this.  You said you had come to the end of your money, and that you must go home.  It seems a pity when you are getting better.  I have so much more than I need.  I don’t offer it to you as a gift, but I thought if you wished to stay longer, a loan from me would not be quite impossible to you.  You could repay as quickly or as slowly as was convenient to you, and I should only be grateful and” . . .

He stopped suddenly.

The tears had gathered in Bernardine’s eyes her hand rested for one moment on his arm.

“Mr. Allitsen,” she said, “you did well to trust me.  But I could not borrow money of any one, unless I was obliged.  If I could of any one, it would have been of you.  It is not a month ago since I was a little anxious about money; my remittances did not come.  I thought then that if obliged to ask for temporary help, I should come to you:  so you see if you have trusted me, I, too, have trusted you.”

A smile passed over the Disagreeable Man’s face, one of his rare, beautiful smiles.

“Supposing you change your mind,” he said quietly, “you will not find that I have changed mine.”

Then a few minutes brought them back to Petershof.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A BETROTHAL.

HE had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his answer.  It was only fair to her, and to himself too, that he should know exactly where he stood in her affections.  She had certainly given him little signs here and there, which had made him believe that she was not indifferent to his admiration.  Little signs were all very well for a short time; but meanwhile the season was coming to an end:  she had told him that she was going back to her work at home.  And then perhaps he would lose her altogether.  It would not be safe now for him to delay a single day longer.  So the little postman armed himself with courage.

Waerli’s brain was muddled that day.  He who prided himself upon knowing the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger person than the little hunchback postman.