"Tell me about it," she said.
"It was long ago," he said half dreamily, "long before I married
Malvina. And she died. That was all."
"That was all," repeated Bernardine, looking at him wonderingly.
Then she drew nearer to him.
"And you have loved, Uncle Zerviah? And you were loved?"
"Yes, indeed," he answered, softly.
"Then you would not laugh at me if I were to unburden my heart to you?"
For answer, she felt the touch of his old hand on her head. And thus
encouraged, she told him the story of the Disagreeable Man. She told him
how she had never before loved any one until she loved the Disagreeable
Man.
It was all very quietly told, in a simple and dignified manner:
nevertheless, for all that, it was an unburdening of her heart; her
listener being an old scholar who had almost forgotten the very name of
love.
She was still talking, and he was still listening, when the shop door
creaked. Zerviah crept quietly away, and Bernardine looked up.
The Disagreeable Man stood at the counter.
"You little thing," he said, "I have come to see you. It is eight years
since I was in England."
Bernardine leaned over the counter.
"And you ought not to be here now," she said, looking at his thin face.
Pages:
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176