“Why don’t you read aloud to me? The doctor says it’ll be all right now. I’ve a mountain of stuff to make up for school, and we’ll both gain something.”
Paul blushed. He was not particularly keen on displaying his shortcomings outright to Carl, even if he did confess them. But oh second thoughts, he got the book that his cousin asked for, and opening it, plunged in bravely. It was a humiliating experience for him, to have to stop before a long word, and pronounce it syllable by syllable, and although Carl did not laugh at him, he corrected him with an air of grave superiority that was even more trying. But the very fact that he did not shine in this particular province, increased Carl’s good will toward him.
“You are getting on very well,” he said in a patronizing tone. “Keep it up.”
The books that they read frequently led to arguments—friendly debates, and these were Carl’s special delight. He liked to pretend that he was addressing a jury, and would launch forth into a flood of eloquence, to which Paul listened very respectfully, usually taking care not to contradict his cousin or to wound his vanity by remaining unconvinced by his oratory. But sometimes he would get carried away himself, and a vigorous battle would follow, in which Paul had only his clear, simple reasoning to pit against Carl’s confusing knowledge. But both of them enjoyed it; Carl loved to dispute any point at all, and Paul “liked the exercise.”
But in the long run, Paul found Carl’s favorite occupations very little to his taste. He grew weary of his cousin’s books, with their long-winded dissertations, he positively hated the dim room; and the innumerable games of checkers that they played, when Carl’s eyes finally began to improve, gradually developed in him a profound detestation of that pastime. His only satisfaction came to him from his aunt’s and uncle’s gratitude.
By the end of the month Carl was well enough to sit up in a chair by the window for three or four hours a clay, and even to take off his eyeshade for a little while in the evening when the light was softer. The family happiness over this improvement was boundless, and in the late afternoons everyone gathered in Carl’s room. These were gay occasions, and even Mr. Lambert, who always sat beside his son, and never took his eyes from his face, cracked jokes, and laughed and was in the best humor imaginable.
One Sunday afternoon they were thus collected—all of them, including Granny, who sat rocking serenely back and forth, smiling benignly and a little absent-mindedly upon them all, winding a skein of deep magenta wool, which Lottie held for her. The whole room was in pleasant disorder, books and games lay scattered around, for Mr. Lambert had relaxed his usual strict Sabbath rules while Carl was ill, and permitted all sorts of uncustomary amusements. Minie was cutting new paper dolls out of the Sunday paper, and painting them in glorious hues. Everyone was gossiping and chattering—everyone, that is except Jane and Paul, who sat on the little bench that made a seat in the embrasure of the casement window.
Jane, who had missed her cousin severely during the last weeks, was content to have him with her again, and sat beside him, looking through the section of the newspaper that Minie had graciously spared. Paul, a trifle out of spirits, was staring out of the window. It was open, admitting a gentle evening breeze, which rustled through the full-blown foliage of Jane’s beloved nut-tree. Below, on the other side of the street some children were playing hop-scotch. And from somewhere came the sound of boyish voices singing in “close harmony”—“I was seeing Nelly ho-ome, I was seeing Nelly home, It was from Aunt Dinah’s quilting party, I was seeing Nel-ly home.”
Suddenly Jane laid her hand on Paul’s to attract his attention. “Look! Look at this, Paul,” she said in a low voice, putting the paper on his knee, and pointing to a paragraph.
He glanced down and read,