"Oh, thanks," he rather doubtfully accepted.

Evidently he did not know the ways and proprieties of this new

"parish" of his. But Joan seemed to take the situation with an

enormous calm impersonality. He modeled his manner upon hers. They sat

at the table together, Joan silent, save when he forced her to speak,

and entirely untroubled by her silence, Frank Holliwell eating

heartily, helping her serve, and talking a great deal. He asked her a

great many questions, which she answered with direct simplicity. By

the end of dish-washing, he had her history and more of her opinions,

probably, than any other creature she had met.

"What do you do when Landis is away?"

She told him.

"But, in the evenings, I mean, after work. Have you books?"

"No," said Joan; "it's right hard labor, readin'. Pa learned me my

letters an' I can spell out bits from papers an' advertisements an'

what not, but I ain't never read a book straight out. I dunno," she

added presently, "but as I'd like to. Pierre can read," she told him

proudly.

"I'm sure you'd like to." He considered her through the smoke of his

pipe. He was sitting by the hearth now, and she, just through with

clearing up, stood by the corner of the mantel shelf, arranging the

logs. The firelight danced over her face, so beautiful, so unlighted

from within.

"How old are you, Joan Landis?" he asked suddenly, using her name

without title for the first time.

"Eighteen."

"Is that all? You must read books, you know. There's so much empty

space there back of your brows."

She looked up smiling a little, her wide gray eyes puzzled.

"Yes, Joan. You must read. Will you--if I lend you some books?"

She considered. "Yes," she said. "I'd read them if you'd be lendin' me

some. In the evenings when Pierre's away, I'm right lonesome. I never

was lonesome before, not to know it. It'll take me a long time to read

one book, though," she added with an engaging mournfulness.

"What do you like--stories, poetry, magazines?"

"I'd like real books in stiff covers," said Joan, "an' I don't like

pictures."

This surprised the clergyman. "Why not?" said he.

"I like to notion how the folks look myself. I like pictures of real

places, that has got to be like they are"--Joan was talking a great

deal and having trouble with her few simple words--"but I like folks

in stories to look like I want 'em to look."




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