“And he burns the light still?”
“Except Saturday and Sunday nights, it’s always alight, longer or shorter. Them two nights, he gets into bed respectable, as the rest of the house do. You have noticed, Miss Constance, that, the evenings he is not out, he’ll go up to his chamber by half-past nine or ten?”
“Frequently,” assented Constance. “As soon as the reading is over, he will wish us good night.”
“Well, them nights, when he goes up early, he puts his light out sooner—by twelve, or by half-past, or by one; but when he spends his evenings out, not getting home until eleven, he’ll have it burning till two or three in the morning.”
“What can he sit up for?” involuntarily exclaimed Constance.
“I don’t know, unless it is that the work at the office is too heavy for him,” said Judith. “He has his own work to do there, and master’s as well.”
“It is not at all heavy,” said Constance. “There is an additional clerk since papa’s illness, you know. It cannot be that.”
“It has to do with the office-books, for certain,” returned Judith. “Why else is he so particular in taking ‘em into his room every night?”
“He takes—them—for safety,” spoke Constance, in a very hesitating manner, as if not feeling perfectly assured of the grounds for her assertion.
“Maybe,” sniffed Judith, in disbelief. “It can’t be that he sits up to read,” she resumed. “Nobody in their senses would do that. Reading may be pleasant to some folks, especially them story-books; but sleep is pleasanter. This last two or three blessed nights, since that ill news come to make us miserable, I question if he has gone to bed at all, for his candle has only been put out when daylight came to shame it.”