entered into a very wise old man, who knew that the best way to live
down the past is to live boldly the present. All that Christina could
be sure of was that the old Nicholas Snyders had mysteriously
vanished, that in his place remained a new Nicholas, who looked at her
with kindly eyes--frank and honest, compelling confidence. Though
Nicholas never said so, it came to Christina that she herself, her
sweet example, her ennobling influence it was that had wrought this
wondrous change. And to Christina the explanation seemed not
impossible--seemed even pleasing.

The sight of his littered desk was hateful to him. Starting early in
the morning, Nicholas would disappear for the entire day, returning in
the evening tired but cheerful, bringing with him flowers that
Christina laughed at, telling him they were weeds. But what mattered
names? To Nicholas they were beautiful. In Zandam the children ran
from him, the dogs barked after him. So Nicholas, escaping through
byways, would wander far into the country. Children in the villages
around came to know a kind old fellow who loved to linger, his hands
resting on his staff, watching their play, listening to their
laughter; whose ample pockets were storehouses of good things. Their
elders, passing by, would whisper to one another how like he was in
features to wicked old Nick, the miser of Zandam, and would wonder
where he came from. Nor was it only the faces of the children that
taught his lips to smile. It troubled him at first to find the world
so full of marvellously pretty girls--of pretty women also, all more
or less lovable. It bewildered him. Until he found that,
notwithstanding, Christina remained always in his thoughts the
prettiest, the most lovable of them all. Then every pretty face
rejoiced him: it reminded him of Christina.