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 made Roger whistle and slyly lament to his wife that moreporks were expensive pets. Then Hennessey, the constable, came and cleared away the old brown books, and all the rest of the manuscripts. And, once again, the old kitchen was empty.

No longer ago than last November, I was down myself at the farm on the promontory-tip; and I found Mrs. Callender all in a flutter still at the extraordinary event of the week before. Two men had arrived at the farm, two strangers, two foreigners—come all the way from Germany, it appeared, to visit the place where the celebrated Dr. Müller (it really was a ü in the middle of his name—did I know?) had lived and died and written his so-famous volume upon what, Mrs. Callender could not for the life of her make out—that had revolutionised  something, concerning which she had been able to gather no idea; except the joyful one that it was so exceedingly important that her father’s friend had now become a greatly revered man in his own country. She was very triumphant over Roger about it; but Roger, good, substantial man, stuck sturdily to his guns. Where was the good of a dinner after you were dead? If the poor old duffer couldn’t succeed in getting famous in time enough to know it, didn’t that show he was a failure, right enough? And, anyway, what the dickens did anybody care for what they thought in Germany about anything?

I went for a minute or two into the old kitchen. It was cool, and still, and shady, although, outside, the garden was blazing-bright already with its early summer bloom; and a great group of Christmas-