"No, on Sunday he is glad to rest—Sunday is the day of rest, you know. Your father works very hard all the week."
"So does Uncle Martin—much harder than father, I believe. Is that an interesting book you're reading, mother? Won't you read it to me?"
"I am afraid you would not like it; you would not understand it. Come and sit by the fire and tell me how you and Roger amused yourselves yesterday afternoon."
"I took him all over the place," Edgar said as he seated himself in a chair near his mother's. "He likes to see the gardens and the greenhouses—he seems awfully fond of flowers—and he's quite crazy about horses: says he'd like to be a coachman when he grows up. He enjoyed his tea tremendously, and afterwards we—we just stuck about and talked," he concluded vaguely.
"Did he say when Cousin Becky leaves?" Mrs. Marsh inquired.
"No. I don't think she's going yet, she's only been there about a fortnight, you know, and Roger said he hoped she'd stay much longer. They all like her so much, and she isn't a bit in the way; I asked Roger if she was, and he said no; he wished she was going to stay altogether. Did you ever read 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' mother?" he asked with an abrupt change of the subject.
"Yes, years ago, when I was a little girl; I believe there is an old copy in the house somewhere."
"Has it pictures in it?" Edgar questioned eagerly.
"No, I think not. Why?"
"Because there are pictures in Uncle Martin's—Roger told me about them. There's one of a great wicked monster all over scales and breathing out fire and smoke."