s
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:
he was not interested in the outside world, and she was not interested
in Roman History. But they were trying to get nearer to each other: they
had lived years together, but they had never advanced a step; now they
were trying, she consciously, he unconsciously. But it was a slow
process, and pathetic, as everything human is.

"If we could only find some subject which we both liked," Bernardine
thought to herself. "That might knit us together."

Well, they found a subject; though, perhaps, it was an unlikely one.
The cart-horses: those great, strong, patient toilers of the road
attracted their attention, and after that no walk was without its
pleasure or interest. The brewers' horses were the favourites, though
there were others, too, which met with their approval. He began to know
and recognize them. He was almost like a child in his newfound interest.
On Whit Monday they both went to the cart-horse parade in Regent's Park.
They talked about the enjoyment for days afterwards.

"Next year," he told her, "we must subscribe to the fund, even if we
have to sell a book."

He did not like to sell his books: he parted with them painfully, as
some people part with their il