The captain's elbow was resting on his knee and his head was propped on his hand, so that the hand shaded his eyes. The shoemaker went on, in a dull, heavy voice. He had clearly forgotten that he had a listener. "I tried to find him, tried everywhere. I watched for her, night after night, until they said that want of sleep and care and sorrow had driven me ill. It was then I first began to dream; I have dreamed ever since. And when at last I was better, and was able to get again to my work, her mother was gone; they did not tell me where at first, but afterward I learned that she had died, and I was completely alone. I came here then; it was a place where no one knew me, and none could ask questions. And here, two years ago, a letter followed me, written by the man, and saying that she was dead. That is the hardest thing of all--that she died in some strange land, far over the seas; and I can not even know where she lies buried, or where she sleeps, or whether the sun shines on her grave. It doesn't matter--it doesn't matter." The captain raised his head and looked at him. "Perhaps she was happy in her new life; perhaps----" The man broke in upon the words fiercely. "She died in shame and want and misery. The man had tired of his plaything; in his cold and brutal letter he told me that they had not agreed, and that he had deemed it wiser to part from her. He begged of me to believe"--the scorn in the old man's voice as he flung out his arm passionately was terrible--"that he would have married her had it been possible; he was sorry for her death." He had drawn his arm, in an uncouth fashion, across his eyes, and his voice shook as he finished. Presently he let his arm fall to his side and looked about him in that curious, helpless way, with something of a smile upon his face. "And so you see," he went on, in a gentler tone, "I live on here from day to day, and dream my dreams; and am happy to forget sometimes which is truth and which is dream. And then quite suddenly one day, while I sat at my work here, I lifted up my eyes and saw--O God, my heart leaps now when I think of it!--saw _her_, as I thought, come back to me, a baby again, standing in the doorway smiling. That was the best dream of all; that is the best dream still." He raised his eyes, laughed aloud, and clasped his hands. "Does she come here often?" asked the captain, gently. "Yes, often and often. We do not even speak to each other sometimes, but I like to feel her close beside me, just as the other one sat, ages and ages ago. Who knows"--he laid a hand upon the captain's arm and sank his voice to a whisper--"who knows but that she is mine, come back, like a fairy child, in purity and innocence, to comfort me, and to tell me that all the rest has been a dream indeed? How else should she come to me? Yes, I like to think that--it comforts me."