it stood. But would he not keep a few volumes? I asked. Surely there could
be no objection to a few shelves of books; and how would he live without
them? At first he declared vehemently that not a volume should be kept--he
never wished to see a book again as long as he lived. But Mrs.
Christopherson? I urged. Would she not be glad of something to read now and
then? At this he grew pensive. We discussed the matter, and it was arranged
that a box should be packed with select volumes and taken down into Norfolk
together with the rest of their luggage. Not even Mrs. Keeting could object
to this, and I strongly advised him to take her permission for granted.

And so it was done. By discreet management the piled volumes were stowed in
bags, carried downstairs, emptied into a cart, and conveyed away, so
quietly that the sick woman was aware of nothing. In telling me about it,
Christopherson crowed as I had never heard him; but methought his eye
avoided that part of the floor which had formerly been hidden, and in the
course of our conversation he now and then became absent, with head bowed.
Of the joy he felt in his wife's recovery there could, however, be no
doubt. The crisis through which he had passed had made him, in appearance,
a yet older man; when he declared his happiness tears came into his eyes,
and his head shook with a senile tremor.

Before they left London, I saw Mrs. Christopherson--a pale, thin, slightly
made woman, who had never been what is called good-looking, but her face,
if ever face did so, declared a brave and loyal spirit. She was not joyous,
she was not sad; but in her eyes, as I looked at them again and again, I
read the profound thankfulness of one to whom fate has granted her soul's
desire.