minute. I glanced at Mary to see if she understood my feeble
subterfuge, but I met only a frank smile, as though, like her uncle,
she believed that I was likely to go hobbling about on moonlight nights
this way. Luther never doubted me.

"It's good of you to drop in," he said, after he had fixed me in his
own comfortable chair and drawn up the settee for himself. "When I was
livin' alone up here I often used to wish some of you young folks would
come in of an evenin' and keep me company and join me in readin' the
Good Book. It used to be lonely sometimes, but since I've got Mary it
ain't so bad. But I hope her bein' here won't make no difference, and
now as you've started you'll come just the same as if I was alone."

I assured him that I would come just the same. That made Mary laugh.
She had been sitting in the lamp-lit circle, and now she rocked back
into the shade, so, craning my neck, I could just see the dark outline
of her face. She made some commonplace but kindly speech of welcome,
and I was about to engage her, seeking to draw her from the shadow,
when her uncle suddenly interposed himself between us and took a book
from the table. Drawing the settee closer to the light, he opened the
great volume across his knees and adjusted his spectacles. Throwing
back his head and looking at me benignly from under his glasses, he
said: "It's peculiarly fortunate you come to-night, Mark. When you
knocked I was readin' aloud to Mary. We read together every night now,
her and me, and most instructin' we find it."

I told Luther that it was too much for me to allow him to wear out his
eyes reading to me; much as I should enjoy it, I could not hear of it,
but I would ask him to let me have the volume when he had finished with
it. It did seem that this should bring Mary into the light again, and