"No," said I; decisively. "What books have you got through?"

"All you sent--Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe, and the Arabian
Nights. That's fine, isn't it?" and his eyes sparkled.

"Any more?"

"Also the one you gave me at Christmas. I have read it a good deal."

I liked the tone of quiet reverence in which he spoke. I liked to
hear him own, nor be ashamed to own--that he read "a good deal" in
that rare book for a boy to read--the Bible.

But on this subject I did not ask him any more questions; indeed, it
seemed to me, and seems still, that no more were needed.

"And you can read quite easily now, John?"

"Pretty well, considering." Then, turning suddenly to me: "You read
a great deal, don't you? I overheard your father say you were very
clever. How much do you know?"

"Oh--nonsense!" But he pressed me, and I told him. The list was
short enough; I almost wished it were shorter when I saw John's face.

"For me--I can only just read, and I shall be fifteen directly!"

The accent of shame, despondency, even despair, went to my very
heart.