liked to do it, and she was a woman, and it was a
very little thing in which he could oblige her.

"Were you a good boy, and did you find a good
book to read?" asked she.

"Yes, ma'am."

"What was the book?" Cora Trumbull inquired,
absently, writing as she spoke.

"Poetry."

Cora laughed. " Poetry is odd for a boy," said she.
"You should have read a book of travels or history.
Good night, Johnny."

"Good night, mother."

Then Johnny met his father, smelling strongly of
medicines, coming up from his study. But his father
did not see him. And Johnny went to bed, having
imbibed from that old tale of Robin Hood more of
history and more knowledge of excursions into realms
of old romance than his elders had ever known during
much longer lives than his.

Johnny confided in nobody at first. His feeling
nearly led him astray in the matter of Lily Jennings;
he thought of her, for one sentimental minute, as