daughter by his first wife, had died long ago in childhood; and
lastly--this came in a burst of confidence, with a very pleasant
smile--that his second wife had been his daughter's governess. I listened
with keen interest, and hoped to learn still more of the circumstances of
this singular household.

'In the country,' I remarked, 'you will no doubt have shelf room?'

At once his countenance fell; he turned upon me a woebegone eye. Just as I
was about to speak again sounds from within the house caught my attention;
there was a heavy foot on the stairs, and a loud voice, which seemed
familiar to me.

'Ah!' exclaimed Christopherson with a start, 'here comes some one who is
going to help me in the removal of the books. Come in, Mr. Pomfret, come
in!'

The door opened, and there appeared a tall, wiry fellow, whose sandy hair,
light blue eyes, jutting jawbones, and large mouth made a picture
suggestive of small refinement but of vigorous and wholesome manhood. No
wonder I had seemed to recognise his voice. Though we only saw each other
by chance at long intervals, Pomfret and I were old acquaintances.

'Hallo!' he roared out, 'I didn't know you knew Mr. Christopherson.'

'I'm just as much surprised to find that _you_ know him!' was my reply.

The old book-lover gazed at us in nervous astonishment, then shook hands
with the newcomer, who greeted him bluffly, yet respectfully. Pomfret spoke
with a strong Yorkshire accent, and had all the angularity of demeanour