"Don't mind," I said, laying my feeble, useless hand upon that which
guided me on so steady and so strong; "how could you have had time,
working as hard as you do?"

"But I ought to learn; I must learn."

"You shall. It's little I can teach; but, if you like, I'll teach
you all I know."

"O Phineas!" One flash of those bright, moist eyes, and he walked
hastily across the road. Thence he came back, in a minute or two,
armed with the tallest, straightest of briar-rose shoots.

"You like a rose-switch, don't you? I do. Nay, stop till I've cut
off the thorns." And he walked on beside me, working at it with his
knife, in silence.

I was silent, too, but I stole a glance at his mouth, as seen in
profile. I could almost always guess at his thoughts by that mouth,
so flexible, sensitive, and, at times, so infinitely sweet. It wore
that expression now. I was satisfied, for I knew the lad was happy.

We reached the Mythe. "David," I said (I had got into a habit of
calling him "David;" and now he had read a certain history in that
Book I supposed he had guessed why, for he liked the name), "I don't
think I can go any further up the hill."

"Oh! but you shall! I'll push behind; and when we come to the stile
I'll carry you. It's lovely on the top of the Mythe--look at the