He tried to count sheep going through a stile and they persisted in turning into the figures of a Compound Interest sum. He tried to call back the picture of domestic happiness with which the sight of William’s sister had inspired him earlier in the evening, and always the vision of William’s earnest, inscrutable countenance rose to spoil it.
Sheep—one—two—three—four—five——
THE DOOR OPENED AND
WILLIAM APPEARED FOR
THE THIRD TIME. “IN
THIS BOOK WHAT YOU
KINDLY GAVE ME,” HE
BEGAN, “IT TELLS ABOUT
THE STARS.”
The door opened, and William appeared with the open book once more in his hand.
“In this book what you kindly gave me,” he began, “it tells about the stars an’ the Lion an’ that, an’ I can’t find the Lion from the window, though the stars are out. I wondered ’f you’d kindly let me look through yours.”
Sheep and stile vanished abruptly. After a short silence pregnant with unspoken words, Mr. Bennison sat up in bed. He looked very weary as he stared at William, but he was doggedly determined to act up to his ideals.
“I don’t think you can see the Lion from this side of the house, my boy,” he said, in what he imagined was a kind tone of voice, “it must be right on the opposite side of the house.”
“Then we could see it from my window,” said William brightly and guilelessly, “if you’d kin’ly come an’ help me find it.”
Mr. Bennison said nothing for a few seconds. He was counting forty to himself. It was a proceeding to ensure self-control taught him by his mother in early youth. It had never failed him yet, though it nearly did on this occasion. Then he followed William across the landing to his room.