her; a steady hard-headed mechanic, who was doing well in the
Midlands and had just married, spoke to him with uncompromising common
sense; if he chose to incapacitate himself, he must not look to his
relatives to support him. Silently Gilbert acquiesced; silently he went
back to the factory, and, when he came home of nights, sat with eyes
gazing blankly before him. His mother lived with him, she and his
sister; the latter went out to work; all were dependent upon the wages
of the week. Nearly a year went by, during which Gilbert did not open a
book. It was easier for him, he said, not to read at all than to
measure his reading by the demands of his bodily weakness. He would
have sold his handful of books, sold them in sheer bitterness of mind,
but this his mother interfered to prevent.

But he could not live so. There was now a danger that the shadow of
misery would darken into madness, Little by little he resumed his
studious habits, yet with prudence. At thirty his bodily strength
seemed to have consolidated itself; if he now and then exceeded the
allotted hours at night, he did not feel the same evil results as
formerly. His sister was a very dear companion to him; she had his own
tastes in a simpler form, and woman's tact enabled her to draw him into
the repose of congenial talk when she and her mother were troubled by
signs of overwork in him. He purchased a book as often as he could
reconcile himself to the outlay, and his knowledge grew, though he
seemed to himself ever on the mere threshold of the promised land,
hopeless of admission.

Then came his sister's death, and the removal from Battersea back to
Lambeth. Henceforth it would be seldomer than ever that he could devote
a shilling to the enrichment of his shelves. When both he and Lizzie
earned wages, the future did not give much trouble, but now all
providence was demanded. His brother in the Midlands made contribution
towards the mother's support, but Henry had a family of his own, and it
was only right that Gilbert should bear the greater charge. Gilbert was
nearing five-and-thirty.

By nature he was a lonely man. Amusement such as his world offered had
always been savourless to him, and he had never sought familiar
fellowship beyond his home. Even there it often happened that for days
he kept silence; he would eat his meal when he came from work, then
take his book to a corner, and be mute, answering any needful question
with a gesture or the briefes