enjoy the country she loved. A touch of
envy mingled, I confess, with my thought of Christopherson, who henceforth
had not a care in the world, and without reproach might delight in his
hoarded volumes. One could not imagine that he would suffer seriously by
the removal of his old haunts. I promised myself to call on him in a day or
two. By choosing Sunday, I might perhaps be lucky enough to see his wife.

And on Sunday afternoon I was on the point of setting forth to pay this
visit, when in came Pomfret. He wore a surly look, and kicked clumsily
against the furniture as he crossed the room. His appearance was a
surprise, for, though I had given him my address, I did not in the least
expect that he would come to see me; a certain pride, I suppose,
characteristic of his rugged strain, having always made him shy of such
intimacy.

'Did you ever hear the like of _that_!' he shouted, half angrily. 'It's all
over. They're not going! And all because of those blamed books!'

And spluttering and growling, he made known what he had just learnt at his
aunt's home. On the previous afternoon the Christophersons had been
surprised by a visit from their relatives and would-be benefactress, Mrs.
Keeting. Never before had that lady called upon them; she came, no doubt
(this could only be conjectured), to speak with them of their approaching
removal. The close of the conversation (a very brief one) was overheard by
the landlady, for Mrs. Keeting spoke loudly as she descended the stairs.
'Impossible! Quite impossible! I couldn't think of it! How could you dream
for a moment that I would let you fill my house with musty old books? Most
unhealthy! I never knew anything so extraordinary in my life, never!' And
so she went out to her carriage, and was driven away. And the landlady,
presently having occasion to go upstairs, was aware of a dead silence in
the room where the Christophersons were sitting. She knocked--prepared with
some excuse--and found the couple side by side, smiling sadly. At once they
told her the truth. Mrs. Keeting had come because of a letter in which Mrs.
Christopherson had mentioned the fact that her husband had a good many
books, and hoped he might be permitted to remove them to the house in
Norfolk. She came to see the library--with the result already heard. They
had the choice between sacrificing the books and losing what their relative
offered.

'Christopherson refused?' I let fall.

'I suppose his wife saw th