properly. I have a few more in--in the other
room.'

He led me across the landing, opened another door, and showed me a little
bedroom. Here the encumberment was less remarkable, but one wall had
completely disappeared behind volumes, and the bookishness of the air made
it a disgusting thought that two persons occupied this chamber every night.

We returned to the sitting-room, Christopherson began picking out books
from the solid mass to show me. Talking nervously, brokenly, with now and
then a deep sigh or a crow of laughter, he gave me a little light on his
history. I learnt that he had occupied these lodgings for the last eight
years; that he had been twice married; that the only child he had had, a
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
which marks the typical Yorkshireman. He came to announce that everything
had been settled for the packing and transporting of Mr. Christopherson's
library; it remained only to decide the day.

'There's no hurry,' exclaimed Christopherson. 'There's really no hu