“You can take the money for any book outside, Tommy,” he said, after a little reflection. “If a customer wants anything inside, come up and call me.” The boy went away, proud at being left in charge. Joyce filled a cup with the rapidly cooling coffee, and drank it at a draught. The minutes crept on. If his wild and dreadful fancies were groundless, where could Yvonne be? She could not have chosen a time before the shops were open to make any necessary purchases before the ceremony. Or had she gone out of the house so as to avoid spending a painful morning in his company? But that was unlike Yvonne. At last he descended, and stood bareheaded in the raw air, gazing up and down the street. “I ‘ve taken eightpence already,” said the boy, handing him a pile of coppers. Joyce took them from him absently, and put them in his pocket, while Tommy went back to his seat on the upturned box, and resumed his occupation of blowing on his chilled fingers. No sign of Yvonne. Several passers-by turned round and looked at Joyce. In his well-fitting clothes, and with his refined, thorough-bred air, he seemed an incongruous figure standing hatless in the doorway of the dingy secondhand book-shop. Presently he became aware of an elderly man trying to pass him. He stepped aside with apologies, and followed the customer. “Are you serving here?” asked the latter, with some diffidence. On Joyce’s affirmative, he enquired after two editions of “Berquin,” which he had seen in Runcle’s catalogue. Joyce took one from the shelves,--the original edition. It was priced two guineas. The customer haggled, then wished to see the other. As this was on the top shelf at the back part of the shop, Joyce had to mount the ladder and hunt for it in the dusky light. While thus employed, he felt something sweep against the foot of the ladder, and, looking down, he saw Yvonne. She shot a quick upward glance, and hurriedly disappeared. His heart gave a great bound as he saw her, and he dropped the books he was holding. He could not seek any more for the “Berquin.” In another moment he was by the side of the customer. “We must have sold the other copy. How much will you give for this?” “Thirty-five shillings.” “You can have it,” said Joyce. Never was book tied up at greater speed. He thrust it into the man’s hand, received the money without looking at it, and left the elderly man standing in the middle of the shop, greatly astonished at the haste of the transaction. Joyce flew up the stairs into the sitting-room. “Oh, where--” he began. Then he stopped, dazed and bewildered, for Yvonne, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back, her lips parted, and a great yearning light in her eyes, came swiftly to him from where she stood, uttering a little cry, and in another moment was sobbing in his arms. “Oh, my love, my dear, dear love!” she cried, “I could not leave you--take me--for always. I love you--I love you--I could n’t leave you!”