When the good landlady entered the room, a few minutes afterwards, she was dismayed to find the door ajar, and not closed, as she had imagined. This caused her to turn very red. But Doris did not refer to what she had overheard, for in truth she did not know what to say. Later she might refund Mrs. Sam her money, and have that off her conscience; but what about all the other people who had purchased her pictures? She felt sick at heart, and quite unable to do her work as usual. However, it had to be done, and she went upstairs slowly and heavily. "What shall I do?" she thought. "I cannot earn my living unless I do it in this way, which is not honest--I see that now; at first I thought it was, but I know Alice’s brother is quite right. I’m a cheat and a fraud, a humbug and a thief; for I take money out of people’s pockets, and make them no adequate return for it, although I make them think I do." And then Bernard called. He was dressed in his worn clothes, and looked tired and harassed, but "every inch a gentleman," as Mrs. Austin said when she gave his name to Doris, asking if she would come downstairs to see him. At first Doris thought she ought to send word that she was engaged. But she could not do it. She was so miserable and so hopeless; and the very thought of Bernard’s presence there in the house caused hope and joy to spring up in her heart, and was like new life to her. She, therefore, took off her painting-apron, washed her hands, and went down to the sitting-room. "Doris"--Bernard spoke very quietly, holding out his hand exactly as any other visitor might have done--"Doris, I have called to see you. It is very kind of you to come down. I--I will not detain you long." "It is kind of you to call," said Doris, rather lamely, noticing all at once how thin and worn he looked, "and I haven’t much time to spare, but I could not--could not refuse." Her voice trembled and broke; tears filled her eyes. It was hard, very hard to have to speak thus to one she still loved dearly. "Oh, Doris," he cried, hope springing up in his heart by leaps and bounds at the sight of her downcast face, "Doris, darling, I cannot bear to see you looking so sad, and to know that you are alone here except for your friend----" "She has left me!" interrupted Doris, crying now. "I am quite alone." "Left you! You are alone! Oh, my darling!" He put his arms round her slim waist. "You are not alone! You need never be alone again, for _I_ am here. Nay, don’t send me away, dearest," he pleaded; "hear me, I beg. I love you, Doris. I love you with all my heart. The loss of my money--ah! forgive my mentioning it--it is as nothing to the grief of losing you. Ah, you don’t know what I have suffered! Without you this world is to me a howling wilderness." He drew her to him. "Darling," he continued, low in her ear, "_never_ send me away again."