The thought of it worried him; so he put it from him. He
remembered vaguely that Bernardine's father had suddenly become ill,
that his powers 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.
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