"What are you going to do with those books, Mr. Betts?" demanded the child.
"I am going to take them away, missy. You see, your poor father won't want them any more, and they'd only be a trouble to your mother, especially as she is leaving this house, so I am going to take them to my shop."
Margery looked at him for a few moments in a troubled, bewildered way. Then big tears gathered again in her eyes.
"Oh, I can't bear it!" she cried suddenly. "Father is gone, and now his books are going, and everything will be different. I cannot bear it."
And then, to Michael's consternation, she threw herself face downwards on the rug and sobbed aloud with a child's passionate vehemence. He was in utter dismay, not knowing in the least what to say or do. It seemed to him quite a long time that he stood there, helpless and embarrassed; but in truth only a few minutes passed ere the door opened and a woman wearing a white cap and apron came quickly into the room.
"Come, come, Miss Margery, this won't do," she said, not unkindly, though in a tone of remonstrance, as she bent over the weeping child. "You mustn't give way like this. Come, come now."
And taking the child in her arms, she carried her from the room.
There were tears in Michael's eyes as he turned back to the bookshelves. The hands which tried to lift the books shook strangely. He hated his task now. He was thankful when he had got through with it, and the last load was conveyed to his shop.
He could not forget the child. He sat up late that night, still busied with the books, for it was not easy to find room for them all in the limited space which his premises afforded. Margery's words kept ringing in his ears—"I should think you would cross soon, Mr. Betts, for you are so very old. You are older than my father was, aren't you?"
The child was right, though how she knew he could not imagine. Michael had seen the professor's age recorded in the newspaper—he was fifty-one, whereas Michael was fifty-nine. But what of that?