The absence of his
accustomed work seemed to leave something out of his life. It did not
appear to him that he could be the same to Miss Baker now; their little
habits were disarranged, their customs broken up. He could no longer
fancy himself so near to her. They would drift apart now, and she would
no longer make herself a cup of tea and "keep company" with him when
she knew that he would never again sit before his table binding uncut
pamphlets. He had sold his happiness for money; he had bartered all his
tardy romance for some miserable banknotes. He had not foreseen that it
would be like this. A vast regret welled up within him. What was that
on the back of his hand? He wiped it dry with his ancient silk
handkerchief.
Old Grannis leant his face in his hands. Not only did an inexplicable
regret stir within him, but a certain great tenderness came upon him.
The tears that swam in his faded blue eyes were not altogether those of
unhappiness. No, this long-delayed affection that had come upon him in
his later years filled him with a joy for which tears seemed to be the
natural expression. For thirty years his eyes had not been wet, but
tonight he felt as if he were young again.
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