When he tiptoed downstairs, Fuji had gone to bed. Gissing went
into his study, lit a pipe, and walked up and down, thinking. By
and bye he wrote two letters. One was to a bookseller in the
city, asking him to send (at once) one copy of Dr. Holt's book on
the Care and Feeding of Children, and a well-illustrated edition
of Mother Goose. The other was to Mr. Poodle, asking him to fix a
date for the christening of Mr. Gissing's three small nephews,
who had come to live with him.
"It is lucky they are all boys," said Gissing. "I would know
nothing about bringing up girls."
"I suppose," he added after a while, "that I shall have to raise
Fuji's wages."
Then he went into the kitchen and fixed the dishcloth rack.
Before going to bed that night he took his usual walk around the
house. The sky was freckled with stars. It was generally his
habit to make a tour of his property toward midnight, to be sure
everything was in good order. He always looked into the ice-box,
and admired the cleanliness of Fuji's arrangements.
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