ad to be taught to read. He learned,
himself. That is, he was so eager to learn that so soon as he had
mastered the alphabet, he was always taking his picture books to his
mother or sister, and getting them to spell the words for him. In this
way he got over all his difficulties with surprising rapidity, and at
five years of age could read quite easily. As he grew older, he showed
rather an odd taste in his choice of books. One volume that he read from
cover to cover before he was eight years old was Layard's "Nineveh."
Just why this portly sombre-hued volume, with its winged lion stamped in
gold upon its back, attracted him so strongly, it would not be easy to
say. The illustrations, of course, had something to do with it, and then
the fascination of digging down deep into the earth and bringing forth
all sorts of strange things no doubt influenced him.

Another book that held a wonderful charm for him was the Book of
Revelation. So carefully did he con this, which he thought the most
glorious of all writings, that at one time he could recite many chapters
of it word for word. Its marvellous imagery appealed to his imagination
if it did nothing more, and took such hold upon his mind that no part of
the Bible, not even the stories that shine like stars through the first
books of the Old Testament, was more interesting to him.

Not only was Bert's imagination vivid, but his sympathies were also very
quick and easily aroused. It was scarcely safe to read to him a pathetic
tale, his tears were so certain to flow. The story of Gellert's hound,
faithful unto death, well-nigh broke his heart, and that perfect pearl,
"Rab and His Friends," bedewed his cheeks, although he read it again and
again until he knew it almost by heart.

No one ever laughed at his tenderness of heart. He was not taught that
it was unmanly for a boy to weep. It is an easy thing to chill and
harden an impressionable nature. It is not so easy to soften it again,
or to bring softness to one that is too hard for its own good.

With such a home, Bert Lloyd could hardly fail to be a happy boy, and no
one that knew him would ever have thought of him as being anything else.
He had his dull times, of course. What boy with all his faculties has
not? And he had his cranky spells, too. But neither the one nor the
other lasted very long, and the sunshine soon not only broke through the
clouds, but scattered them altogether. Happy are those natures not given
to br