Before Miss Margaret had come to New Canaan, Tillie had done her midnight reading by the light of the kerosene lamp which, after every one was asleep, she would bring up from the kitchen to her bedside.  But this was dangerous, as it often led to awkward inquiries as to the speedy consumption of the oil.  Candles were safer.  Tillie kept them and a box of matches hidden under the mattress.

It was eleven o’clock when at last the child, trembling with mingled delight and apprehension, rose from her bed, softly closed her bedroom door, and with extremely judicious carefulness lighted her candle, propped up her pillow, and settled down to read as long as she should be able to hold her eyes open.  The little sister at her side and the one in the bed at the other side of the room slept too soundly to be disturbed by the faint flickering light of that one candle.

To-night her stolen pleasure proved more than usually engrossing.  At first the book was interesting principally because of the fact, so vividly present with her, that Miss Margaret’s eyes and mind had moved over every word and thought which, she was now absorbing.  But soon her intense interest in the story excluded every other idea—­even the fear of discovery.  Her young spirit was “out of the body” and following, as in a trance, this tale, the like of which she had never before read.

The clock down-stairs in the kitchen struck twelve—­one—­two, but Tillie never heard it.  At half-past two o’clock in the morning, when the tallow candle was beginning to sputter to its end, she still was reading, her eyes bright as stars, her usually pale face flushed with excitement, her sensitive lips parted in breathless interest—­when, suddenly, a stinging blow of “the strap” on her shoulders brought from her a cry of pain and fright.

“What you mean, doin’ somepin like, this yet!” sternly demanded her father.  “What fur book’s that there?”

He took the book from her hands and Tillie cowered beneath the covers, the wish flashing through her mind that the book could change into a Bible as he looked at it!—­which miracle would surely temper the punishment that in a moment she knew would be meted out to her.

“’Iwanhoe’—­a novel!  A novel!” he said in genuine horror.  “Tillie, where d’you get this here!”

Tillie knew that if she told lies she would go to hell, but she preferred to burn in torment forever rather than betray Miss Margaret; for her father, like Absalom’s, was a school director, and if he knew Miss Margaret read novels and lent them to the children, he would surely force her out of “William Penn.”

“I lent it off of Elviny Dinkleberger!” she sobbed.

“You know I tole you a’ready you darsen’t bring books home!  And you know I don’t uphold to novel-readin’!  I ’ll have to learn you to mind better ‘n this!  “Where d’ you get that there candle?”

“I—­bought it, pop.”

“Bought?  Where d’you get the money!”