There was no lamp in the room; only on the hearth a pine-knot nearly
spent, sending out now a bright light, then wavering, bringing out
shadows on the wall, and permitting us to catch glimpses of the
outdoor radiance, the silvery effulgence of the rocks and hills.

The sick man slept, and now his breathing was as sweet as an infant's.
I rose to look at him, his bronzed face bleached to a deathly pallor,
his high brow seamed with furrows, and his hair like a network of
silver falling over the coarse white pillow.

"Has he been long ill?" I asked.

"It is about three months now," and Franz drew up a little stand, and
lifted the Bible that had been lying open on the bed to the table.

"Annette spoke of reading him to sleep; was this the book?" I
questioned.

"Father has come to like this since he was sick; he don't care for any
other."

"Then he has not always liked it?"

"No, sir."

"May I know, Franz, when you first learned to love this book?"

He looked up with such a shy, timid look, and still with the same
frankness that had characterized him during the day. Just then Annette
entered, whispered to Franz, and both went out. In a moment Franz