dear?" Felicia asked, curling down on a footstool at
Mrs. Sturgis's feet.

"Rather, thank you," said her mother, and fell silent, patting the arm
of the chair as though she were considering whether or not to say
something more. She said nothing, however, and they sat quietly in the
falling dusk, Felicia stroking her mother's white hand, and Ken humming
softly to himself at the window. Kirk and his book were almost lost in
the corner--just a pale hint of the page, shadowed by the hand which
moved hesitantly across it. The hand paused, finally, and Kirk demanded,
"What's 'u-g-h' spell?"

"It spells 'Ugh'!" Ken grunted. "What on earth are you reading? Is
_that_ what Miss Bolton gives you!"

"It's not my lesson," Kirk said; "it's much further along. But I can
read it."

"You'll get a wigging. You'd better stick to 'The cat can catch the
mouse,' _et cetera_."

"I finished that _years_ ago," said Kirk, loftily. "This is a different
book, even. Listen to this: 'Ugh! There--sat--the dog with eyes--as--big
as--as--'"

"Tea-cups," said Felicia.

"'T-e-a-c-' yes, it _is_ tea-cups," Kirk conceded; "how did you know,
Phil?--'as big as tea-cups,--staring--at--him. "You're a nice--fellow,"
said the soldier, and he--sat him--on--the witch's ap-ron, and took as
many cop--copper shillings--as his--pockets would hold.'"

"So that's it, is it?" Ken said. "Begin at the beginning, and let's hear
it all."

"Ken," said his mother, "that's in the back of the book. You shouldn't
encourage him to read things Miss Bolton hasn't given him."

"It'll do him just as much good to read that, as that silly stuff at the
beginning. Phil and I always read things we weren't supposed to have
reached."

"But for him--" Mrs. Sturgis murmured; "you and Phil were different, Ken.
Oh, well,--"

For Kirk had turned back several broad pages, and began:

"There came a soldier marching along the highroad--one, two! one,
two!..."

Little by little the March twilight settled deeper over the room. There
was only a flicker on the brass andirons, a blur of pale blossoms where
the potted azalea stood. The rain drummed steadily, and as steadily came
the gentle modulations of Kirk's voice, as the tale of "The Tinder-Box"
progressed.

It was the first time that he had ever read aloud anything so ambitious,
and his hearers sat listening with some emotion--his mother filled with
thankfulness that he had at last the key to a vast world which he now
might ope