He found his small lamp in a corner, lighted it with some difficulty, set it on the table and sat down.

There, beside him, propped up against two books, was the piece of paper on which he had written the few words for his friends, in case they came while he was out.

He took it up, looked over it absently and began to fold it upon itself again and again.
"Dear Vjera!" he exclaimed, in a low caressing tone, as he smoothed the folded strip between his fingers.
He was thinking, and thinking connectedly, of all that had just taken place, and wondering how it was that he had been able to accept such a sacrifice from one so little able to sacrifice anything.

It seemed as though it should have been impossible for him to let the poor little shell-maker take upon herself his burden, and free him of it and set him right again in his own eyes.
"I know that I love her now," he said to himself.
And he was right.

There are secret humiliations to which no man would submit, as such, but from which love, when it is real, can take away the sting and the poison.