There was a gentle rat-tat-tat on the door.  It was so gentle that Luther thought his ears were deceiving him, for while he stopped reading, he made no motion to rise, but sat listening.  Again they came, three polite taps, seeming to say, “I should like to get in, but pray don’t disturb yourself.”

“Come in,” shouted the old preacher, not even looking around, for he still seemed to doubt his sense of hearing.

The door opened quietly and Mr. Robert Weston appeared before us.  Mary had slipped from her place to meet him, and in Weston’s greeting to her I had my first lesson in what the world calls manner.  How clumsy seemed my own excuses for coming at all, compared to his pleasure at finding her at home!  He had been looking forward all afternoon to seeing her again.  As he shook hands with Luther, he was so hearty that the old man took his guest by the shoulders and declared fervidly that he was rejoiced that he had come.  Weston did not glare at Perry Thomas, nor at me either.  We but added to his pleasure.  Truly his cup of joy was overflowing!  And the famine in India—­indeed—­indeed!  The subject was one which interested him deeply, and if Mr. Warden cared for it, he would send him several books on the far East which he had in his library at home.  He hoped that in return he might some time have the pleasure of reading carefully, cover to cover, the fat volume that Luther had spread across his knees.  Meantime, he would insist on not interrupting.  But Mary must be comfortably seated before he could take the place on the settee that Luther had arranged for him, and he must hear all over again the story of the book, of Brother Matthias Pennel and Sister Flora Martin.  How I envied him!  What must Perry and I seem beside this lanky man with his kindly, easy ways!  Perry, of course, did not see it.  He was smiling, for Weston was telling him that he had stood at the Thomas gate for a half hour the very evening before, listening to the strains of a violin.  He hoped to hear that melody again, when Mr. Warden had finished the story of the brave missionary of Ballerraderad.

The Dunker preacher was beaming.  He forgot the great doctrine of humility, and declared that “Mister” Weston should have the volume that very night.  There was nothing better to give a clear view of the character of the work than Brother Matthias Pennel’s account of the heroism of Sister Flora.  So we composed ourselves again to hear of the battle to the death between the noble missionary woman and the mighty Bengal.

“Nearer and nearer came the footsteps,” read Luther, pausing at each word to make sure of it.  “Furder and furder out over the top of the mission-house leaned Sister Flora, and as she leaned she thought how much depended on her that night; for she must remember that there were sleeping within the walls of the mission-house forty-seven children, thirty of which were females under the age of eleven years, and seventeen males, of whom not one-half had reached the age of nine years.  Next she saw a dark object crouching below her.  She saw two fiery eyes; she saw the tiger gather himself preparatory to springing.  She——­”