't the general custom, but, the truth is, I
discovered that she'd got the habit of not listening to me while I was
reading, or commenting, either. So I made up my mind that I'd have her
do the reading herself. It has worked pretty well. She is in my
Bible-class, and now answers as many questions right as any of the rest,
no matter the age or the education."

Tilly was blushing as she lowered her head over the big tome with its
brass corners and clasps, and John was sorry for her. A storm of rage
against her father ran through him. This was dispelled quickly, however,
for when the girl began to read in her clear and sweetly modulated voice
he sat transfixed by the sheer charm and music of the delivery. Her neck
was bare, and he saw her white throat throbbing like that of a warbling
bird. He did not grasp the full sense of what she read, for some of the
words were unusual to him. Had she been reading in a foreign tongue, it
would have been no more marvelous to him. Her flush had died down; her
eyes rested unperturbed on the page; one little hand curved around a
corner of the big book; the fingers of its mate held a leaf ready to be
turned. The lamplight fell into the brown mass of hair that crowned her
well-poised head like a halo. Her long lashes seemed mystic films
through which he glimpsed her eyes. Looking across the room, he saw
Cavanaugh, his rough fingers interlocked over his knee, staring steadily
at the reader. Was it imagination or were the old man's eyes actually
moist? They seemed to glitter in the light.

Tilly finished the chapter and slowly closed the book, fastening the
clasps carefully. She raised her eyes to John's face and quickly, almost
guiltily, looked away. Her father had risen and stood holding the back
part of his chair with his two hands.

"Now we'll kneel down and pray," he said. "Brother--er--er--Cavanaugh, I
don't know what your habit or turn is, but I'm going to ask you to lead
if you feel so inclined."

Cavanaugh was rising. "I make a poor out," he said, "but I'll do my
best. I--I don't often refuse when called on." He was looking at John
almost appealingly. "I--I regard it as a duty to--to my religion and
membership."

The strange, alien feeling swept over John again. He had never heard his
jovial associate pray, though he had been told that Cavanaugh did so now
and then; besides, John felt as if he were being personally imposed
upon. He was not religious; he had never even been to chu