David's misery returned all in a rush, and he hesitated.
"I don't think I care about the books now," he said.
"What nonsense!" said Hieronymus. "You are not shy about showing them to me? I am sure you have bought some capital ones."
"Oh, it wasn't that," David said quietly, as he unlocked the oak chest and took out the precious volumes and laid them on the table. In spite of himself, however, some of the old eagerness came over him, and he stood by, waiting anxiously for the historian's approval. Hieronymus groaned over Mrs. Hemans' poetry, and Locke's "Human Understanding," and Defoe's "History of the Plague," and Cowper, and Hannah More. He groaned inwardly, but outwardly he gave grunts of encouragement. He patted David on the shoulder when he found "Selections from Browning," and he almost caressed him when he proudly produced "Silas Marner."
Yes, David was proud of his treasures; each one of them represented to him a whole world of love and hope and consolation.
Hieronymus knew for whom the books were intended, and he was touched by the exciseman's quiet devotion and pride. He would not have hurt David's feelings on any account; he would have praised the books, however unsuitable they might have seemed to him.
"My dear fellow," he said, "you've done capitally by yourself. You've chosen some excellent books. Still, this list may help you to go on, and I should advise you to begin with 'Green's History of the English People.'"
David put the volumes back into the oak chest.
"I don't think I care about buying any more," he said sadly. "It's no use."
"Why?" asked Hieronymus.