nd enjoy what he had gained.

When the books were all in he sat down at his table and surveyed it,
rubbing his dusty hands. How much that is childish, how much that is
fresh, and youthful, and innocent must be in the mind of a man (you
would say) who could be thus excited about a book-case! and yet this was
not the kind of man whom you would call unsophisticated and youthful. It
was probably the state of suppressed excitement in which he was, the
unreality of his position, that helped him to that sense of elation as
much as anything else; for emotion is a Proteus ready to take any form,
and pain itself sometimes finds vent in the quick blazing up of
fictitious delight, as much as in the moanings that seem more accordant
with its own nature. He put his hand into his pocket for his pencil to
make a note of the contents of the new shelves, and then he found
Cotsdean's note, which he had not forgotten, but which he had felt no
desire to remember. When he felt it between his fingers his countenance
fell a little; but he took it out and read it with the smile still upon
his face. It was a dirty little roll of paper, scribbled in pencil.

"Rev. Sir,

"I hope as you are not forgetting the 15th. Pleas excuse
anxiety and bad writing, i am a poor nervous man I no, a
word of answer just to say as it is all right will much
oblidge.

"Rev. Sir,
"Your humble servant,
"T. COTSDEAN."

Betsy knocked at the door as he read this, with a request for an answer
to Mr. Cotsdean's note. "Little Bobby, sir, is waiting for it in the
kitchen."

"Give Bobby some supper," said Mr. May, "tell him to tell his father
it's all right, and I shan't forget. You understand? He is a troublesome
little fool; but it's all right, and I shan't forget, and give the child
some supper, Betsy. He ought not to be out so late."

"He is a delicate little thing, sir, thankye, sir," said Betsy,
half-frightened by her master's amiability; and he smiled and repeated,

"Tell him it's all right."

Was it all right, the 15th? Cotsdean must have made a mistake. Mr. May's
countenance paled, and the laugh went off; he opened a drawer in his
writing-table and took out a book, and anxiously consulted an entry in
it. It was the 18th certainly, as clear as possible. Something had been
written on the opposite page, and had blotted slightly the one on which
these entries were written; but there it stood, the 18th April. Mr. May
prid