“Tommy Remington,” he answered, his shyness back upon him in an instant.
“And your father’s a miner?”
He nodded. She looked at him a moment without speaking, rapidly considering how she might say best what she wished to say.
“Tommy,” she began, “wouldn’t you like to learn to read all this for yourself—all these books, all these stories,” and she waved her hand toward the little shelf above her desk. “It is a splendid thing—to know how to read!”
He looked at her with eyes wide opened.
“But I couldn’t!” he gasped incredulously. “None of th’ boys kin. Why, even none of th’ men kin—none I know.”
“Oh, yes, you could!” she cried. “Any one can. The reason none of the other boys can is because they have never tried, and the men probably never had a good chance. Of course you can’t learn if you don’t try. But it’s not at all difficult, when one really wants to learn. If you’ll only come and let me teach you!”
He glanced again at her face and then out across the valley. The shadows were deepening along the river, and above the trees upon the mountain-side great columns of white mist circled slowly upward.
“Promise me you’ll come,” she repeated.
The boy looked back at her, and she saw the light in his eyes.