And the deep pity welled up in him, and he put his hand on her head. And whether it was the priestly touch, or whether the deep pity flowed into the fingers and the palm, or whether it was some other reason—but the sobbing was quietened, and he could feel the head quiet under his hand. And he lifted her hands with his other, and felt the scars of her meaningless duties about this forlorn house.
He walked on like a man from whom a pain has lifted a little, not altogether, but a little. He remembered too that he had laughed, and that it had pained him physically, as it pains a man who is ill and should not laugh.
The girl is not like Gertrude. She is openly glad to be in this house. Her clothes are few but clean, for she has prepared them with care, and of other belongings she has almost none at all. She opens the doors and looks into the rooms, and she is glad, not having lived before in such a house.