Perry Thomas’s knock had been ponderous, thunderous, and clumsy.  Weston’s had been self-assured, but polite.  Now came a series of raps, now loud, now low, now quick, now slow, keeping time to a martial air.  Evidently there was a rollicking fellow outside.  No one moved.  We sat there, all five of us, eyes wide open in surprise, trying to guess, who this could be playing tunes on the door, and never seeking to solve the simple problem by turning the knob.

It was Tim.  There was a sudden oppressive silence.  Then he entered, gravely bowing.

“Good evening, Mr. Warden,” he said mockingly.  “You have a delightful way here of greeting the stranger at your gate, closing your ears to his appeals and letting him break in.  And Miss Warden too—­why, this is a surprise.  I had supposed you’d be at a ball.  And Mr. Weston—­delighted—­I’m sure——­”

“What, Mark?” There was genuine surprise in Tim’s voice as he saw me sitting quietly in the shadow.  His mock elegance disappeared, and he stood gaping at me.  “I thought you’d gone to see Mr. Weston,” he blurted out.

“He came to see me instead,” said Mary laughing.  “And so did Mr. Weston and Mr. Thomas, and so I hope you did.  And if you sit down there by Uncle Luther and be quiet, you shall hear about the famine in India.”

Tim just filled the settee.  In my dark corner, in my comfortable chair, I could smile to myself as I watched his plight and that of his companions.  I could not see Mary well, for the lamp and the long table separated us, but I fancied that in her retreat she, too, was laughing.  Poor Tim had the end of the bench.  He sat very erect, with his head up, his eyes on the wall before him, his folded hands resting on his knees, after the company manner of Black Log.  Mr. Perry Thomas, at the other end, was his counterpart, only the orator drew his chin into his collar, furrowed his brow, and gazed wisely at the floor.  He was where Mary could see him!

Weston had none of our stiff, formal ways, but was making himself as much at home as possible in such trying circumstances.  He spread out all over the narrow space allotted him between Luther and my brother.  But curiously enough, he really seemed interested.  It was he who told, in greatest detail, to Tim the story of Brother Matthias Pennel and of the trials of the saintly Flora Martin.  When he had recounted her adventures to the very instant she caught the gleam of the tiger’s eyes, he calmly swung one lank leg over the knee of the other, slid down in his seat so he could hook his head on the hard back, and said, cheerily, “Now, Mr. Warden, go on reading and let no one interrupt.”

Perry was coughing feebly, as he always does when he is plotting to speak.

“No, no,” cried Weston in protest; “I insist, Mr. Thomas, that you stay and play the violin to us when we have heard the end of this interesting story.”