Weston had none of our stiff, formal ways, but was making himself as
much at home as possible in such trying circumstances. He spread out
all over the narrow space allotted him between Luther and my brother.
But curiously enough, he really seemed interested. It was he who told,
in greatest detail, to Tim the story of Brother Matthias Pennel and of
the trials of the saintly Flora Martin. When he had recounted her
adventures to the very instant she caught the gleam of the tiger's
eyes, he calmly swung one lank leg over the knee of the other, slid
down in his seat so he could hook his head on the hard back, and said,
cheerily, "Now, Mr. Warden, go on reading and let no one interrupt."

Perry was coughing feebly, as he always does when he is plotting to
speak.

"No, no," cried Weston in protest; "I insist, Mr. Thomas, that you stay
and play the violin to us when we have heard the end of this
interesting story."

It was with mingled feelings that I regarded Brother Matthias Pennel.
As I had stood on the tavern porch that night, looking up the white
road that led to Mary's home, I had dared to picture to myself a
different scene from the one before me. From that scene Luther Warden
had been removed entirely. Of Robert Weston, of Perry Thomas, of Tim,
I had taken no account. They had not even been dreamed of, for Mary
and I were to sit alone in the quiet of the evening. The flash of her
eyes was to be for me--for me their softer glowing. At my calling the
rich flames would blaze on her cheeks. I was to light those flames. I
was to fan them this way and that way. I was to smother them, kindle
them, quench them. Playing with the fire of a woman's face! Dangerous
work, that! And up the white road I had hobbled to the fire, as a