than if I had never seen her; by that time, fresh air and exercise were doing their work, and at Vera I stood a sane man once more.  I find it hard to believe now that I really behaved in that frantic way.  Do you remember coming once to the shop to ask for a box to send to America?  As you talked to me that morning, I knew what I know better still now, that there was no girl that I liked as I liked you, no girl whose face had so much meaning for me, whose voice and way of speaking so satisfied me.  But you don’t understand—­I can’t express it—­it sounds stupid—­”

“I understand very well,” said Bertha, once more on the impartial note.

“But the other thing, my insanity?”

“I should have to think about that,” she answered, with a twinkle in her eyes.

Will paused a moment, then asked in a shamefaced way: 

“Did you suspect anything of the sort?”

Bertha moved her head as if to reply, but after all, kept silence.  Thereupon Warburton stood up and clutched his hat.

“Will you let me see you again—­soon?  May I come some afternoon in this week, and take my chance of finding you at home?—­Don’t answer.  I shall come, and you have only to refuse me at the door.  It’s only—­an importunate tradesman.”

Without shaking hands, he turned and left the room.

Dreamily he walked homewards; dreamily, often with a smile upon his face, he sat through the evening, now and then he pretended to read, but always in a few minutes forgetting the page before him.  He slept well; he arose in a cheerful but still dreamy, mood; and without a thought of reluctance he went to his day’s work.

Allchin met him with a long-drawn face, saying:  “She’s dead, sir.”  He spoke of his consumptive sister-in-law, whom Warburton had befriended, but whom nothing had availed to save.

“Poor girl,” said Will kindly.  “It’s the end of much suffering.”

“That’s what I say, sir,” assented Allchin.  “And poor Mrs. Hopper, she’s fair worn out with nursing her.  Nobody can feel sorry.”

Warburton turned to his correspondence.

The next day, at about four o’clock, he again called at the Crosses.  Without hesitation the servant admitted him, and he found Bertha seated at her drawing.  A little gravely perhaps, but not at all inhospitably, she rose and offered her hand.

“Forgive me,” he began, “for coming again so soon.”

“Tell me what you think of this idea of a book-cover,” said Bertha, before he had ceased speaking.

He inspected the drawing, found it pretty, yet ventured one or two objections; and Bertha, after smiling to herself for a little, declared that he had found the weak points.

“You are really fond of this work?” asked Will.  “You would be sorry to give it up?”

“Think of the world’s loss,” Bertha answered with raised eyebrows.

He sat down and kept a short silence, whilst the girl resumed her pencil.