your voice would be ruined. Then your mother would never forgive me. I know enough about music to realize what your singing is to her. Here. Take a book and read. By-and-by it will be dinner time. Maybe the hot soup will soothe your throat."
He directed her to a bookcase and a vellum-bound copy of "The Pilgrim's Progress;" observing with fresh pleasure that it was her habit, not an accident of the previous evening, that she handled all books daintily and with respect for them. Then he forgot her in his own Review, and his foot grew easier as the afternoon wore on.
Josephine sat patiently poring over the familiar story, which she could easily read in her own copy at home, but that seemed different in this grand volume; and after a time the words began to mix themselves up in a curious sort of jumble. She closed her eyes the better to clear her vision, didn't think to open them again, and her head sank down upon the pictured page.
"Huh!" said Mr. Smith, at last laying aside
