He opened to her. She had his night-shirt in her hand. She closed the door and said: "You've torn your shift." "Yes. I tore it in my sleep." "Poor laddie," she said. "If I could do aught to help ye I would. Ye're a poor solitary body. . . . It's this house and the misery that's not of your making." Bennett looked at her and the kindness in her eyes made him burst into tears. She patted his shoulders, went away into the kitchen and came back with a glass of milk and some biscuits. She saw that he ate and drank, and Bennett said: "Thank you. I feel better . . . Tibby, why don't people understand what they are?" "God knows," said she. "It's all a great mystery. There's a deal of unkindness, and a little kindness in the world. It's not given to us to understand." "Tibby--" he paused. "Tibby, would you love me whatever I did?" "Surely. You're one of my bairns." Bennett kissed her. Then he went and posted his letter. * * * Annette came to meet him next day as he left his office. They had a long walk and were altogether happy, laughing and discovering little jokes that they could share--odd names on the shop-fronts, queer folk in the streets, strange advertisements on the placards. He left her near her home. He had so loved being alone with her that he had no wish to see her with her family. Also he was afraid of Minna. She spoiled everything. Only one evening a week could Annette give to him, but they had Saturday afternoon and Sundays. She knew very little of the town, and, though he had little pride in it, it was a delight to him to show her such beauties as it had--the Zoological Gardens, the Art Gallery, the Reference Library, the School, the College, Humphrey Bodham's Hospital, the parks, the elegant southern suburbs. They shared it all, and sharing made everything beautiful. Always he found her more wonderful. Her simple trust in him strengthened him, dissipated the mists and dark shadows of his mind, made him, what he had never been, a boy. He could laugh with her.