bought out of his wife's thirty shillings a week?'

'No, no. To begin with, he kept a few out of his old library. Then, when he
was earning his own living, he bought a great many. He told me once that
he's often lived on sixpence a day to have money for books. A rum old owl;
but for all that he's a gentleman, and you can't help liking him. I shall
be sorry when he's out of reach.'

For my own part, I wished nothing better than to hear of Christopherson's
departure. The story I had heard made me uncomfortable. It was good to
think of that poor woman rescued at last from her life of toil, and in
these days of midsummer free to 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