Church, was an old bookshop, well known to me: the gas-jet shining upon the
stall with its rows of volumes drew me across. I began turning over pages,
and--invariable consequence--fingering what money I had in my pocket. A
certain book overcame me; I stepped into the little shop to pay for it.

While standing at the stall, I had been vaguely aware of some one beside
me, a man who also was looking over the books; as I came out again with my
purchase, this stranger gazed at me intently, with a half-smile of peculiar
interest. He seemed about to say something. I walked slowly away; the man
moved in the same direction. Just in front of the church he made a quick
movement to my side, and spoke.

'Pray excuse me, sir--don't misunderstand me--I only wished to ask whether
you have noticed the name written on the flyleaf of the book you have just
bought?'

The respectful nervousness of his voice naturally made me suppose at first
that the man was going to beg; but he seemed no ordinary mendicant. I
judged him to be about sixty years of age; his long, thin hair and
straggling beard were grizzled, and a somewhat rheumy eye looked out from
his bloodless, hollowed countenance; he was very shabbily clad, yet as a
fallen gentleman, and indeed his accent made it clear to what class he
originally belonged. The expression with which he regarded me had so much
intelligence, so much good-nature, and at the same time such a pathetic
diffidence, that I could not but answer him in the friendliest way. I had
not seen the name on the flyleaf, but at once I opened the book, and by the
light of a gas-lamp read, inscribed in a very fine hand, 'W. R.
Christopherson, 1849.'

'It is my name,' said the stranger, in a subdued and uncertain voice.