He stole round to the back of the house with his heart on fire. The door was locked; she had not got in that way. Bram had never given up the workman’s habit of carrying a few handy tools in a huge knife in his pocket, and in a few seconds he had taken one of the outside kitchen shutters off its hinges, and shot back the window-catch. The next moment he was in the room. But what a different room! The deal table where he had so often done odd jobs of carpentering for Claire; the old sofa on which she had lain on the night of Christian’s death while she uttered those precious words of love for himself, which he had treasured in his heart all through the dark winter; the three-legged stool on which she used to sit by the fire; the square, high one he used to occupy on the other side--all these things were gone, and there was nothing in the bare and dirty apartment but some odds and ends of sacking and a broken packing case. Suddenly Bram conceived an idea. He dragged the packing case over the floor, taking care not to make much noise, put it in the place of his old stool, and sat down on it, bending over the dusty ashes which had been left in the fireplace just as he used to do over the fire on a cold evening. And presently the door opened softly, and Claire came in. He did not look round. He was satisfied to know that she was there, there, almost within reach of his arm. And still he bent over the ashes. A slight sob at last made him look up. Oh, what a sight for him! The little girl, looking smaller than ever in her black frock and bonnet, was standing in the full sunlight, smiling through her tears; smiling with such unspeakable peace and happiness in her eyes, such a glint of joy illuminating her whole face, that as he got up he staggered back, and cried-- “Eh, Miss Claire, you’re more like a sunbeam than ever!” She did not answer at first. She only clasped her small hands and stared at him, with her lips parted, and the tears springing to her eyes. But then she saw something in his face which brought the blood to hers; and she turned quickly away, and pretended to find a difficulty in making her way through the rubbish on the floor. “Miss Claire!” said he. “Oh, Miss Claire!” That was the sum and substance of the eloquence he had been teaching himself; of the elaborate and carefully-chosen words which he had so often prepared to meet her with, words which should be respectful and yet affectionate, sufficiently distant, yet not too cold. It had all resolved itself into this hapless, helpless exclamation-- “Miss Claire! Oh, Miss Claire!” “I’m not surprised to find you here, Bram,” said she with a little touch of growing reserve. “When I heard a noise in here I knew I should find you--just the same.” There was a very short pause. Then Bram said breathlessly-- “Yes, Miss Claire, you’ll always find me just the same.”