scholars. They _knew_.
These, two or three of them, drew her nearer to them. She was alone
there with the old man, and, though better, needed care. They mothered
her as well as they could, at first timidly, and then with that sweet
despotism which is for us all an easy yoke to bear. They were drawn to
her as they had never been drawn before. They felt that she was no
longer analysing them, weighing them in her intellectual balance, and
finding them wanting; so they were free with her now, and revealed to
her qualities at which she had never guessed before.
As the days went on, Zerviah began to notice that things were somehow
different. He found some flowers near his table. He was reading about
Nero at the time; but he put aside his Gibbon, and fondled the flowers
instead. Bernardine did not know that.
One morning when she was out, he went into the shop and saw a great
change there. Some one had been busy at work. The old man was pleased:
he loved his books, though of late he had neglected them.
"She never used to take any interest in them," he said to himself.
"I wonder why she does now?"
He began to count upon seeing her. When she came back from her outings,
he was glad. But she did not know. If he had given any sign of welcome
to her during those first difficult days, it would have been a great
encouragement to her.
He watched her feeding the sparrows. One day when she was not there, he
went and did the same. Another day when she had forgotten, he surprised
her by reminding her.
"You have forgotten to feed the sparrows," he said. "They must be quite
hungry."
That seemed to break the ice a little. The next morning when she was
arranging some books in the old shop, he came in and watched her.
"It is a comfort to have you," he said. That was all he said, but
Bernardine flushed with pleasure.
"I wish I had been more to you all these years," she said gently.
He did not quite take that in: and returned hastily to Gibbon.
Then they began to stroll out together. They had nothing to talk about:
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