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 that it was too much for him. At all events, they'd
agreed to keep the books and lose the house. And there's an end of it. I
haven't been so riled about anything for a long time!'

Meantime I had been reflecting. It was easy for me to understand
Christopherson's state of mind, and without knowing Mrs. Keeting, I saw
that she must be a person whose benefactions would be a good deal of a
burden. After all, was Mrs. Christopherson so very unhappy? Was she not the