Joan made no answer. She just shrugged her shoulders. There they were, these two, riding side by side, and yet they were miles apart from each other. David knew it, and grieved. *CHAPTER IX.* *DAVID LAMENTS.* David knew it, and grieved. He knew that Joan’s indifference was growing apace, and that it had taken to itself alarming proportions ever since the historian had been at the Green Dragon. He had constantly met Joan and Hieronymus together, and heard of them being together, and of course he knew that Joan wrote to the historian’s dictation. He never spoke on the subject to any one. Once or twice Auntie Lloyd tried to begin, but he looked straight before him and appeared not to understand. Once or twice some other of the folk made mention of the good-fellowship which existed between Joan and the historian. "Well, it’s natural enough," he said quietly. "Joan was always fond of books, and one feels glad she can talk about them with some one who is real clever." But was he glad? Poor David! Time after time he looked at his little collection of books, handling the volumes just as tenderly as one handles one’s memories, or one’s hopes, or one’s old affections. He had not added to the library since he had spoken to Hieronymus and asked his advice on the choice of suitable subjects. He had no heart to go on with a hobby which seemed to have no comfort in it. To-night he sat in his little sitting-room smoking his pipe. He looked at his books as usual, and then locked them up in his oak chest. He sat thinking of Joan and Hieronymus. There was no bitterness in David’s heart; there was only sorrow. He shared with others a strong admiration for Hieronymus, an admiration which the historian never failed to win, though it was often quite unconsciously received. So there was only sorrow in David’s heart, and no bitterness. The clock was striking seven of the evening when some one knocked at the door, and Hieronymus came into the room. He was in a particularly genial mood, and puffed his pipe in great contentment. He settled down by the fireside as though he had been there all his life, and chatted away so cheerily that David forgot his own melancholy in his pleasure at having such a bright companion. A bottle of whisky was produced, and the coziness was complete. "Now for the books!" said Hieronymus. "I am quite anxious to see your collection. And look here; I have made a list of suitable books which any one would like to have. Now show me what you have already bought." 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."