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 “Sometimes I work—evenings. Then Uncle Dave and I read together. Sometimes I walk in the country with Bishwhang…. I read a good deal. I like to read.”

“What do you read?” Lydia asked, with curiosity aroused.

“Uncle Dave’s books. Stories like Ivanhoe and the ones by Dickens…. I like them. Uncle Dave and I just finished The Wealth of Nations. Now we’re reading a book by a man named Lecky—about Morals….”

“Do you like such books?”

“They’re interesting. They tell you things that come handy every day—especially men like John Stuart Mill and Herbert Spencer. They’ve thought out things; all you have to do is think the thoughts they’ve gotten ready for you.”

“Why,” said Lydia almost childishly, “you know more than I do. I couldn’t read such things.” She was impressed, overshadowed. This recital of Angus’s literary adventures magnified him in her eyes, for her grandfather had set culture as the thing in the world of next importance to family.

Presently Dave Wilkins called in from the porch that he was ready to go, and Angus arose.

“Remember,” said Lydia, “you promised to come to my party.”

“Yes,” said Angus. “…I’ll come.”