He opened his desk and handed her a copy; Marjorie looked at it and at him in open-eyed wonder.  And dared she recite to a teacher who had made a book?

“When is your Speller coming out?”

“In the fall.  I’m busy on my Reader now.”

Prudence stepped to his desk and examined the sheets of upright penmanship; it could be read as easily as print.

“And the Arithmetic?”

“Oh, I haven’t tackled that yet.  That is for winter evenings, when my fire burns on the hearth and the wind blows and nobody in the world cares for me.”

“Then it won’t be this winter,” said Marjorie, lifting her eyes from the binding of the dictionary.

“Why not?” he questioned.

“Because somebody cares for you,” she answered gravely.

He laughed and shoved his manuscript into the desk.  He was thinking of her as he raised his head from the desk this afternoon and found the sun gone down; he thought of her and remembered that he had promised to call to see her to-night.  Was it to take tea?  He dreaded tea-parties, when everybody talked and nobody said anything.  A dim remembrance of being summoned to supper a while ago flashed through his mind; but it hardly mattered—­Mrs. Devoe would take her cup of tea alone and leave his fruit and bread and milk standing on the tea-table; it was better so, she would not pester him with questions while he was eating, ask him why he did not take more exercise, and if his room were not suffocating this hot day, and if he did not think a cup of good, strong tea would not be better for him than that bowl of milk!

Mrs. Devoe, a widow of sixty-five, and her cat, Dolly, aged nineteen, kept house and boarded the school-master.  Her house was two miles nearer the shore than the school-building, but he preferred the walk in all weathers and he liked the view of the water.  Mrs. Devoe had never kept a boarder before, her small income being amply sufficient for her small wants, but she liked the master, he split her wood and his own, locked the house up at night, made no trouble, paid his board, two dollars per week, regularly in advance, never went out at night, often read to her in the evening after her own eyes had given out, and would have been perfect if he had allowed her to pile away his books and sweep his chamber every Friday.

“But no man is perfect,” she had sighed to Mrs. Rheid, “even my poor husband would keep dinner waiting.”

After a long, absent-minded look over the meadows towards the sea, where the waves were darkening in the twilight, he arose in haste, threw off his wrapper, a gray merino affair, trimmed with quilted crimson silk, that Prudence had given him on a birthday three years ago, and went to the wash-stand to bathe his face and brush back that mass of black hair.  He did not study his features as Prudence had studied hers that morning; he knew so little about his own face that he could scarcely distinguish a good portrait