which _was_
mine.'

Willingly I walked on with him. He led me a short distance up the road
skirting Regent's Park, and paused at length before a house in an imposing
terrace.

'There,' he whispered, 'I used to live. The window to the right of the
door--that was my library. Ah!'

And he heaved a deep sigh.

'A misfortune befell you,' I said, also in a subdued voice.

'The result of my own folly. I had enough for my needs, but thought I
needed more. I let myself be drawn into business--I, who knew nothing of
such things--and there came the black day--the black day.'

We turned to retrace our steps, and walking slowly, with heads bent, came
in silence again to the church.

'I wonder whether you have bought any other of my books?' asked
Christopherson, with his gentle smile, when we had paused as if for
leave-taking.

I replied that I did not remember to have come across his name before;
then, on an impulse, asked whether he would care to have the book I carried
in my hand; if so, with pleasure I would give it him. No sooner were the
words spoken than I saw the delight they caused the hearer. He hesitated,
murmured reluctance, but soon gratefully accepted my offer, and flushed
with joy as he took the volume.

'I still have a few books,' he said, under his breath, as if he spoke of
something he was ashamed to make known. 'But it is very rarely indeed that
I can add to them. I feel I have not thanked you half enough.'

We shook hands and parted.

My lodging at that time was in Camden Town. One afternoon, perhaps a
fortnight later, I had walked for an hour or two, and on my way back I
stopped at a bookstall in the High Street. Some one came up to my side; I
looked, and recognised Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of old
friends.

'I have seen you several times lately,' said the broken gentleman, who
looked shabbier than before in the broad daylight, 'but I--I didn't like to
speak. I live not far from here.'

'Why, so do I,' and I added, without much thinking what I said, 'do you
live alone?'

'Alone? oh no. With my wife.'

There was a curious embarrassment in his tone. His eyes were cast down and
his head moved uneasily.

We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away together
continued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a
very intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some proof of
erudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I a