I liked the tone of quiet reverence in which he spoke. I liked to hear him own, nor be ashamed to own—that he read "a good deal" in that rare book for a boy to read—the Bible.
But on this subject I did not ask him any more questions; indeed, it seemed to me, and seems still, that no more were needed.
"And you can read quite easily now, John?"
"Pretty well, considering." Then, turning suddenly to me: "You read a great deal, don't you? I overheard your father say you were very clever. How much do you know?"
"Oh—nonsense!" But he pressed me, and I told him. The list was short enough; I almost wished it were shorter when I saw John's face.
"For me—I can only just read, and I shall be fifteen directly!"
The accent of shame, despondency, even despair, went to my very heart.
"Don't mind," I said, laying my feeble, useless hand upon that which guided me on so steady and so strong; "how could you have had time, working as hard as you do?"
"But I ought to learn; I must learn."
"You shall. It's little I can teach; but, if you like, I'll teach you all I know."