could long resist the shrewd, kind youngster, who could spend an hour
with the most unlikely invalid and leave him all the better for it. I
was unusually busy just then, Clélie frankly hated and feared the man
upstairs, my mother had her hands full, and there were many heavy and
lonesome hours which Laurence set himself the task of filling. I left
this to the boy himself, offering no suggestions.

"Padre," said the boy to me, some time later, "that chap upstairs is
the hardest nut I ever tried to crack. There've been times when I felt
tempted to crack him with a sledge-hammer, if you want the truth. You
know, he always seemed to like me to read to him, but I've never been
able to discover whether or not he liked what I read. He never asked
me a single question, he never seemed interested enough to make a
comment. But I think that I've made a dent in him at last."

"A dent! In Flint? With what adamantine pick, oh hardiest of miners!"

"With a book. Guess!"

"I couldn't. I give up."

"The Bible!" said Laurence.

The Bible! Had _I_ chosen to read it to him, he would have resented
it, been impervious, suspicious, hostile. I looked at the boy's
laughing face, and wondered, and wondered.

"And how," said I, curious, "did you happen to pitch on the Bible?"

"Why, I got to studying about this chap. I wanted something that'd