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WITH DICKENS
"Do you cry when you read out loud?" I asked curiously. "We all do in our family. And we never read about Tiny Tim, or about Steerforth when his body is washed up on the beach, on Saturday nights, or our eyes are too swollen to go to Sunday School."
"Yes, I cry when I read about Steerforth," he answered quietly, and I felt no astonishment.
"We cry the worst when it says, 'All the men who carried him had known him and gone sailing with him, and seen him merry and bold,'" I said, growing very tearful in reminiscence.
We were now fast approaching our destination,—the station in Boston,—
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