out
of my mouth than I regretted them, so evidently did they hit my companion
in a tender place.

'I think she would have liked it,' he answered, with a strangely pathetic
look at me, as if he entreated my forbearance.

'But,' I suggested, 'couldn't you make some arrangements about the books?
Couldn't you take a room for them in another house, for instance?'

Christopherson's face was sufficient answer; it reminded me of his
pennilessness. 'We think no more about it,' he said. 'The matter is
settled--quite settled.'

There was no pursuing the subject. At the next parting of the ways we took
leave of each other.

I think it was not more than a week later when I received a postcard from
Pomfret. He wrote: 'Just as I expected. Mrs. C. seriously ill.' That was
all.

Mrs. C. could, of course, only mean Mrs. Christopherson. I mused over the
message--it took hold of my imagination, wrought upon my feelings; and that
afternoon I again walked along the interesting street.

There was no face at the window. After a little hesitation I decided to
call at the house and speak with Pomfret's aunt. It was she who opened the
door to me.

We had never seen each other, but when I mentioned my name and said I was
anxious to have news of Mrs. Christopherson, she led me into a
sitting-room, and began to talk confidentially.

She was a good-natured Yorkshirewoman, very unlike the common London
landlady. 'Yes, Mrs. Christopherson had been taken ill two days ago. It
began with a long fainting fit. She had a feverish, sleepless night; the
doctor was sent for; and he had her removed out of the stuffy,
book-cumbered bedroom into another chamber, which luckily happened to be
vacant. There she lay utterly weak and worn, all but voiceless, able only
to smile at her husband, who never moved from the bedside day or night. He,
too,' said the landlady, 'would soon break down: he looked like a ghost,
and seemed "half-crazed."'

'What,' I asked, 'could be the cause of this illness?'

The good woman gave me an odd look, shook her head, and murmured that the
reason was not far to seek.

'Did she think,' I asked, 'that disappointment might have something to do
with it?'

Why, of course she did. For a long time the poor lady had been all but at
the end of her strength, and _this_ came as a blow beneath which she sank.

'Your nephew and I have talked about it,' I said. 'He thinks that Mr.
Christopherson didn't understand what a sacrifice he as