e nights and days
of thought.

CHAPTER XXI.

APRSE PERDRE, PERD ON BIEN.

What to those who understand
Are to-day's enjoyments narrow,
Which to-morrow go again,
Which are shared with evil men,
And of which no man in his dying
Taketh aught for softer lying?

It was now early spring: the days were lengthening and were growing
soft. Lent (late that year) was nearly over. I had begun to think much
about the summer, and to wonder if I were to pass it in the city. There
was one thing that the winter had developed in me, and that was, a sort
of affection for my uncle. I had learned that I owed him a duty, and had
tried to find ways of fulfilling it; had taken a little interest in the
house, and had tried to make him more comfortable. Also I had prayed
very constantly for him, and perhaps there is no way more certain of
establishing an affection, or at least a charity for another, than that.

In return, he had been a little more human to me than formerly, had
shown some interest in my health, and continued appreciation of the fact
that I was in the house. Once he had talked to me, for perhaps half an
hour, about my mother, for which I was unspeakably grateful. Several
times he had given me a good deal of money, which I had cared much less
about. Latterly he had permitted me to go to church alone, which had
seemed to me must be owing to Richard's intervention.

Richard had been almost as much as formerly at the house: my uncle was
becoming more and more dependent on him. For myself, I did not see as
much of him as the year before. We were always together at the table, of
course. But the evenings that Richard was with my uncle, I thought it
unnecessary for me to stay down-stairs. Besides, now, they almost always
had writing or business affairs to occupy them.

It was natural that I should go away, and no one seemed to notice it.
Richard still brought me books, still arranged things for me with my
uncle (as in the matter of going to church alone), but we had no more
talks together by ourselves, and he never asked me to go anywhere with
him. At Christmas he sent me beautiful flowers, and a picture for my
room. Sophie I rarely saw, and only longed never to see Benny was
permitted to come and spend a day with me, at great intervals, and I
enjoyed him more than his mother or his uncle.

One day my uncle went down to his office in his usual health; at three
o'clock he was brought home sen