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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?
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.
As it chugged and caterpillared from town through the Reservation, Chris Christopherson's tractor caused almost as much excitement as the first steamship up the Hudson. Men, women and children gathered about and stared wide-eyed at the new machine as its row of plows cut through the stubborn sod like a mighty conqueror. He was plowing a hundred acres.
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 hurry. I'm greatly obliged to you, Mr. Pomfret, for all the trouble you are taking. We'll settle the date in a day or two a day or two.
Christopherson's a gentleman too, there's no denying it; if he wasn't, I think I should have punched his head before now. Oh, I know 'em well! why, I lived in the house there with 'em for several years. She's a lady to the end of her little finger, and how her husband can 'a borne to see her living the life she has, it's more than I can understand.
I'd give something for a walk on Ilkley Moors. As the best substitute within our reach we agreed to walk across Regent's Park together. Pomfret's business took him in that direction, and I was glad of a talk about Christopherson. I learnt that the old book-lover's landlady was Pomfret's aunt. Christopherson's story of affluence and ruin was quite true.
On the other side of us, Chris Christopherson's big field of flax was in full bloom, like a blue flower garden. "I come by Ioway," Mr. Husmann went on, "when she was a raw country, and I say, 'Mein Gott, what grass! But I see no grass so high and rich like this." The gardens matured late, as all growth on the western prairie does.
A rum old owl; but for all that he's a gentleman, and you can't help liking him. I shall be sorry when he's out of reach. For my own part, I wished nothing better than to hear of Christopherson's departure. The story I had heard made me uncomfortable. It was good to think of that poor woman rescued at last from her life of toil, and in these days of midsummer free to enjoy the country she loved.
Christopherson's little Heine, a small, taciturn boy of five who had become a daily, silent visitor at the store, came in one afternoon, roused into what, for him, was a garrulous outburst: "There's a snake right out here, and I bet it's six feet long the way it rattles." Ada grabbed a pole and tried to kill it. The monster struck back like the cracking of a whip.
'By gad, he knows how to ride! went on the masculine voice, 'but Spinach-and-Eggs is on the better horse of the two. The ground was in splendid going condition and the two horses raced over it. They could see Christopherson's face now, and Toffy was smiling slightly, while the other man's teeth were firmly set.
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