A Study In Shadows. William John Locke

the great wooden bedstead, his face barely visible in the dim light which was further obscured by the dingy white curtains running on a rope, fixed over the bed.

      “Jean-Marie.” cried the old woman, “here is Madame come to read to you. Will Madame give herself the trouble to sit down? My daughter has not come in yet, so the room is still unmade.”

      The old man raised himself on his elbow and grinned at Katherine.

      “One would say it was an angel when Madame comes.”

      The old woman broke out again in welcome. It was so good of Madame to come. Jean-Marie could do nothing but talk of her. Really Jean-Marie was right, and she was an angel.

      Katherine took the venerable wooden armchair that was placed for her near the stove, accepted graciously the pillow that the old woman took from the bed to make her more comfortable, and after a few minutes' gossip opened the book she had brought with her and began to read. The old man turned so that he could fix his eyes upon her. His old wife sat on a straight-backed chair at the foot of the bed and listened in deep attention. Katherine read on amid a rapt silence, only broken now and then by an “oh, la! la!” muttered under the breath, at which she could scarcely repress a smile. She was happier now. Her best, kindest, tenderest self only was shown to this poor, broken-down old couple who seemed to worship her.

      There was a humour blended with pathos, too, in the situation that appealed to her. For the book in which their whole souls were concentrated was a French translation of “Robinson Crusoe.”