"Mademoiselle," he said, handing them to Fräulein Müller, and at the same time putting his hand to his heart. He had not noticed Bernardine at first, and when he saw her, he became somewhat confused. She smiled at them both, and escaped into the flower-shop, which was situated in one of the covered passages connecting the mother-building with the dependencies. Herr Schmidt, the gardener, was making a wreath. His favourite companion, a saffron cat, was playing with the wire. Schmidt was rather an ill-tempered man, but he liked Bernardine. "I have put these violets aside for you, Fräulein," he said, in his sulky way. "I meant to have sent them to your room, but have been interrupted in my work." "You spoil me with your gifts," she said. "You spoil my cat with the milk," he replied, looking up from his work. "That is a beautiful wreath you are making, Herr Schmidt," she said. "Who has died? Any one in the Kurhaus?" "No, Fräulein. But I ought to keep my door locked when I make these wreaths. People get frightened, and think they, too, are going to die. Shall you be frightened, I wonder?" "No, I believe not," she answered as she took possession of her violets, and stroked the saffron cat. "But I am glad no one has died here." "It is for a young, beautiful lady," he said. "She was in the Kurhaus two years ago. I liked her. So I am taking extra pains. She did not care for the flowers to be wired. So I am trying my best without the wire. But it is difficult." She left him to his work, and went away, thinking. All the time she had now been in Petershof had not sufficed to make her indifferent to the sadness of her surroundings. In vain the Disagreeable Man's preachings, in vain her own reasonings with herself. These people here who suffered, and faded, and passed away, who were they to her? Why should the faintest shadow steal across her soul on account of them? There was no reason. And still she felt for them all, she who in the old days would have thought it waste of time to spare a moment's reflection on anything so unimportant as the sufferings of an _individual_ human being. And the bridge between her former and her present self was her own illness. What dull-minded sheep we must all be, how lacking in the very elements of imagination, since we are only able to learn by personal experience of grief and suffering, something about the suffering and grief of others! Yea, how the dogs must wonder at us: those dogs who know when we are in pain or trouble, and nestle nearer to us. So Bernardine reached her own door. She heard her name called, and, turning round, saw Mrs. Reffold. There was a scared look on the beautiful face. "Miss Holme," she said, "I have been sent for--I daren't go to him alone--I want you--he is worse. I am" . . . . Bernardine took her hand, and the two women hurried away in silence. CHAPTER XVI. WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE.