The door of the house
in which he lived was open, and he ran up the stairs at a great pace, sure
that by this time his friends must be waiting for him in his room. When he
reached it, all was dark and quiet. The echo of his own footsteps seemed
still to resound in the staircase as he closed his door and struck a
match. He found his small lamp in a corner, lighted it with some
difficulty, set it on the table and sat down. There, beside him, propped
up against two books, was the piece of paper on which he had written the
few words for his friends, in case they came while he was out. He took it
up, looked over it absently and began to fold it upon itself again and
again.
"Dear Vjera!" he exclaimed, in a low caressing tone, as he smoothed the
folded strip between his fingers.
He was thinking, and thinking connectedly, of all that had just taken
place, and wondering how it was that he had been able to accept such a
sacrifice from one so little able to sacrifice anything. It seemed as
though it should have been impossible for him to let the poor little
shell-maker take upon herself his burden, and free him of it and set him
right again in his own eyes.
"I know that I love her now," he said to himself.
And he was right. There are secret humiliations to which no man would
submit, as such, but from which love, when it is real, can take away the
sting and the poison. The man of heart, who does not love but is loved in
spite of himself, fears to accept a sacrifice, lest in so doing he should
seem to declare his readiness to do as he is done by, from like motives.
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