Evening was the old man’s best time, and when he had kept his own chamber through the day he liked to come and sit with Jane as she had her supper.
“Didn’t I hear your father’s voice?” he asked, as he moved slowly to his accustomed chair.
“Yes. He couldn’t stay.”
Jane stood in an attitude of indecision. Having seated himself, Michael glanced at her. His regard had not its old directness; it seemed apprehensive, as if seeking to probe her thought.
“Has Miss Lant sent you the book she promised?”
“Yes, grandfather.”
This was a recently published volume dealing with charitable enterprise in some part of London. Michael noticed with surprise the uninterested tone of Jane’s reply. Again he looked at her, and more searchingiy.
“Would you like to read me a little of it?”
She reached the book from a side-table, drew near, and stood turning the pages. The confusion of her mind was such that she could not have read a word with understanding. Then she spoke, involuntarily.
