“They were owls that attacked you, Higby,” he said, decidedly; “don’t let me hear any more nonsense about a burglar. Come downstairs, children,” and he turned about.
Bethany would not let go his hand, even when they entered the study.
“I will read aloud a little to compose her thoughts before she goes to bed,” the Judge reflected. “No fairy tales to stimulate her imagination, but something that she will not understand,” and he took from his bookshelves a volume of Milton’s works.
He seated himself by the table, drew his reading light toward him, and began. After a time he looked down at the little figure sitting on the stool at his feet.
“I suppose you don’t understand this, Bethany,” he said, patronizingly.
“O, don’t speak, don’t speak, Daddy Grandpa,” she said, impatiently; “please go on.”
She had lifted her head. Her face had lost its dreamy expression. It was glowing, radiant, and intensely interested. The Judge went on mechanically:
“‘There the companions of his fall, o’erwhelmed
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire—’”
Why, the child was understanding what he read, he reflected with surprise, or, rather, she was putting her own interpretation upon it.