Every day she scanned the obituary, fearing to find
the record of another death, fearing and yet wishing to know. The
Disagreeable Man had yearned for his freedom these many years, and now
he was at liberty to do what he chose with his poor life. It was of no
value to him. Many a time she sat and shuddered. Many a time she began
to write to him. Then she remembered that after all he had cared nothing
for her companionship. He would not wish to hear from her. And besides,
what had she to say to him?
A feeling of desolation came over her. It was not enough for her to take
care of the old man who was drawing nearer to her every day; nor was it
enough for her to dust the books, and serve any chance customers who
might look in. In the midst of her trouble she remembered some of her
old ambitions; and she turned to them for comfort as we turn to old
friends.
"I will try to begin my book," she said to herself. "If I can only get
interested in it, I shall forget my anxiety!"
But the love of her work had left her. Bernardine fretted. She sat in
the old bookshop, her pen unused, her paper uncovered. She was very
miserable.
Then one evening when she was feeling that it was of no use trying to
force herself to begin her book, she took her pen suddenly, and wrote
the following prologue.
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