His business absorbed his whole attention. It prospered, and year by year he was able to lay by money. This result he found most satisfactory. Gradually, but surely, the love of gain became the chief passion of his soul. His own wants were few and simple, and he had no one besides himself on whom to spend money, so his savings grew apace, and he hugged to his heart the knowledge that he was making a nice little sum. He never asked himself what good the money was to do, or for whom he was saving it. He forgot that he was growing old, and that a time must soon come when he would have to leave all that he possessed. He loved to think that he was growing rich; never suspecting how miserably poor he was in all that makes the true wealth of human life.
It was rarely now that Michael gave a thought to his unhappy brother; but on the evening of the day which had surprised him by bringing such a quaint little customer to his shop, he found his mind strangely disposed to revert to his own early days. It was a most unusual thing for him to speak with a little child. He could not remember when he had done so before. Had he been asked if he liked children, he would have answered the question decidedly in the negative. He certainly detested the boys of the neighbourhood, who were wont to annoy him by hanging about his shop of an evening, and laying their careless fingers on his books, and who had very objectionable ways of retaliating when he reproved them. But a fair, dainty, blue-eyed, childlike Margery was quite another thing. Her sweet, rosy face, shaded by drooping curls, rose again and again before his mental vision, and her childish voice repeated itself in his ears as he sat patching and mending some of the shabbier of his books.
And somehow those sweet accents carried his memory back to the days of his own childhood. He remembered a little sister who had died; he recalled the bitterness of the tears he had shed as he looked on her still, marble face, lying in the little coffin; he saw his mother weeping as though her heart would break; he saw baby Frank looking in surprise from one to the other, wondering at their tears, but untouched by any sense of their sorrow. How vividly the scene rose before him again! His mother's face, the well-worn, shabby furniture, the very atmosphere of the old home seemed about him for the moment.
Yet how long ago it was! If the little sister had lived, she might now have been an anxious-looking mother herself, with grown-up children. And Frank—baby Frank—what had become of him? Dead, probably,—yes, surely he was dead, and better dead. But Michael heaved a sigh as he thought of his brother. He had not been so moved for years. Certainly the visit of that little maiden had exercised a softening influence upon him. How long it was since he had seen his brother!
His life altogether seemed long, as he looked back on it. Very, very old, the little girl had called him. She was wrong there; he was not so very old. But he was getting old. He could not deny that, and the thought caused him a throb of pain. For the first time, he felt his life to be narrow and contracted and unsatisfactory. He rose and walked up and down the limited space in which it was possible to move between the piled-up books. He drew aside the curtain which hung over the little door, and looked up at the stars shining brightly above the tall houses opposite. And he sighed again. What was making him feel so unlike himself to-night?
He half hoped that on the following day little Margery might again make her appearance in his shop. Would she forget her little debt to him? He hoped not. He did not care about the fourpence so much; but he did want to see the pretty little creature again. But throughout the day he looked for her in vain. Nor did she appear on the next, nor the next. He was conscious of disappointment. On the third day, however, he had news which concerned her.
A well-known customer entered the shop. But though he knew the man well as a customer, Michael knew very little of him. He was not interested in the lives of his customers, except where they touched his own. He knew this one to be a minister of some kind, and from the alacrity with which he dropped the theological books he desired, if their price were at all high, the bookseller imagined that money was not plentiful with him. The fact that this preacher often asked for works by Mr. Spurgeon proved nothing, since Michael's experience had taught him that the writings of that great preacher have a fascination for every species of religious teacher who tries to open his lips in public for the edification of his brother man.
"Good day, sir," said Michael, as his customer entered the shop. "What can I do for you to-day?"
"Good day, Mr. Betts. I really do not know that I want anything in particular, only, as I was passing close by, I could not resist the temptation to look in, just to see what you have. Your wares are always tempting to me."
"I'm glad to hear it, sir. Look round, and welcome. Take your time over it. There's a new lot of books here that I've purchased lately. Maybe you'd fancy some of them."