“Oh, no,” David replied, somewhat embarrassed. “I see enough of the fellows through the day.”
“You read very well,” Mr. Dean remarked irrelevantly. “I like to hear you read.”
David colored with pleasure. “We used to take turns reading aloud at home in the evenings,” he said. “I always liked reading better than being read to.”
“When you get old you like being read to,” replied Mr. Dean. “As our pleasures diminish in number, we enjoy more those that are left—which is very fortunate for some of us.”
David wondered what he meant and why he looked so grave. The boy felt that some sorrow of which he knew nothing oppressed the master. It seemed to him that Mr. Dean did not like to be alone; David often wondered what it could be that had so visibly affected his spirits.
The time was not long in coming when he learned. One day Monroe was translating in the Latin class; the hour was half over; Mr. Dean closed his book and laid it on the table. Monroe and the other boys looked up in wonder.
“I shall have to dismiss the class,” Mr. Dean said. “Will David Ives stop and speak with me?”
There was a strange note in his voice that struck awe into the boys. He did not seem to look at any one; his face was pale and rigid, and he sat grasping the edge of his table as if for support. In mute wonderment the boys filed out of the room, all except David, who waited in front of the platform.
“David,” said the master, still without moving his head, “is David Ives here?”