Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow, But each one is nearer the end, we know: And some day the last thread shall be woven in, God grant it be love, instead of sin! Then are we spinners of wool for this life-web--say? Do we furnish the weaver a web each day? It were better then, O kind friend, to spin A beautiful thread--not a thread of sin. _Anon_. "Is Miss Anderson in?" "Well, yes, sir, she is, but----" "Be so good as to announce me!" "I don’t know about that, sir. Miss Anderson is not very well; and I think--I think it might be better for her not to see visitors." "Visitors? I am not visitors. Be so good as to show me in." Mrs. Austin reluctantly led the way to her sitting-room--a small one at the back of the house--where Doris was reclining on an old-fashioned sofa. She started up on perceiving Mr. Sinclair, and would have risen, but he put her gently back again. "Don’t let me disturb you, I beg," he entreated. "I shall have to go away if you don’t lie still. And I want to see you very much," he pleaded. "It is so long since I had that pleasure." As of old, his strong will dominated hers, and she fell back against the soft pillows Mrs. Austin had placed for her head, and looked at him in silence. Her blue eyes seemed bigger than ever, and her complexion was more clear and waxen; but her cheeks were too thin for beauty, and her mouth drooped pathetically. "My dear child, what have you been doing with yourself?" Norman’s tone was more fatherly than loverlike now: he took Doris’s hands in his and held them gently. Overcome with emotion, and unable to command herself, she burst into tears. What had she been doing? Much, much that he little suspected. She had visited a pawn-broker’s shop more than once, for the purpose of raising money on articles of dress. That was because her earnings were not sufficient for her maintenance; and then she disliked her work exceedingly. There were all sorts of annoyances connected with it. More than one irate householder, on learning that her visit was for money owing, had treated her with rudeness and disrespect, shutting the door in her face. She had also been affronted with coarse jests and familiarities, which terrified and wounded her more than unkind words. Sleepless nights and unsuccessful, ill-feel days combined to rob her of health and strength, while uneasiness about Bernard’s lengthened silence and anxiety about ways and means harassed her mind continually. They were alone in the little room, Mrs. Austin having returned upstairs. Norman Sinclair’s heart ached for the poor girl’s distress, although he by no means knew what occasioned it. He soothed and comforted her as best he could, and then, bit by bit, as she became calmer, drew from her the history of those last months since he had seen her.