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.
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