had all failed him, and that he lingered on, just a
wreck of humanity, and then died. That was twenty years ago. Then he
thought of Bernardine, and said to himself, "History repeats itself."
That was all.

Unkind? No; for when it was told him that she must go away, he looked
at her wonderingly, and then went out. It was very rarely that he went
out. He came back with fifty pounds.

"When that is done," he told her, "I can find more."

When she went away, people said: "He will he lonely."

But he did not seem to be lonely. They asked him once, and he said:
"I always have Gibbon."

And when she came back, they said: "He will be glad."

But her return seemed to make no difference to him.

He looked at her in his usual sightless manner, and asked her what she
intended to do.

"I shall dust the books," she said.

"Ah, I dare say they want it," he remarked.

"I shall get a little teaching to do," she continued. "And I shall take
care of you."

"Ah," he said vaguely. He did not understand what she meant. She had
never been very near to him, and he had never been very near to her.
He had taken but little notice of her comings and goings; she had either
never tried to win his interest or had failed: probably the latter. Now
she was going to take care of him.

This was the home to which Bernardine had returned. She came back with
many resolutions to help to make his old age bright. She looked back
now, and saw how little she had given of herself to her aunt and her
uncle. Aunt Malvina was dead, and Bernardine did not regret her. Uncle
Zerviah was here still; she would be tender with him, and win his
affection. She thought she could not begin better than by looking after
his books. Each one was dusted carefully. The dingy old shop was
restored to cleanliness. Bernardine became interested in her task.
"I will work up the business," she thought. She did not care in the
least about the books; she never looked into them except to clean them;
but she was thankful to have the occupation at hand: something to help
her over a difficult time. For the most trying part of an illness is
when we are ill no longer; when there is no excuse for being idle and
listless; when, in fact, we could work if we would: then is the moment
for us to begin on anything which presents itself, until we have the
courage and the inclination to go back to our own particular work: that
which we have longed to do, and about which we now care nothing.