“I wouldn’t be surprised if he had times of thinking he would go back _somehow_. After he’s educated his children, and got them off his hands, and can afford to take risks. Or, if the worst comes to the worst, his sons will go one day.” “Or _I_ might go,” said Jack, quickly. Mar smiled and fell silent. Jack walked away with his hands in his breeches pockets, and his eyes big with dreams. The opening of the door made them both start. “Didn’t I tell you not to get out of that chair till supper?” Mrs. Mar demanded. She stood there with the butter dish in one hand and the milk pitcher in the other, snapping her bright eyes at the culprit. He for his part had turned about sharply, and he fell from the infinite skies with a bump. “I—I—” he stammered, backing against the bookcase. “It’s on the lower shelf,” said Mar, calmly. “The heavy brown book.” Jack turned again, utterly bewildered, but following the direction indicated by Mr. Mar’s walking-stick. “That’s ‘Franklin’s Second Voyage,’ next the dictionary. Yes, that’s what I want. I think,” he went on to his wife, as Jack stooped to obey him, “I think I must always keep a small prisoner in here, to hand me things out of my reach.” She answered nothing as she set down the butter and the milk, but she kept her eyes on Jack. “Oh, yes,” he was saying hurriedly, “vis is Fwanklin.” He carried the book to his friend. “Fwanklin!” repeated that gentleman with affectation of scorn, as he opened the book. “Now, sir, go back to your seat and practice your R’s. It’s ridiculous for a boy of your age to be talking baby talk.” “Yes, sir,” said Jack, getting very red as he returned to his place. Mrs. Mar stood at the sideboard making a dressing for the salad. Every now and then she looked over her shoulder. But Jack sat impeccable in the penitential chair, saying softly, but with careful emphasis: “Awound ve wugged wocks ve wagged wascal wan. Awound ve,”—but his eyes were too shining to show a mind properly bent upon the course pursued by that particular wascal. After supper, while Mrs. Mar was putting Trennor and Harry to bed, Jack Galbraith looked everywhere he could think of for his book. No, Mr. Mar hadn’t seen it. “Here, I’ll lend you mine. You’ll understand some of the chapter about,”—and he turned the pages till he found the place, and he put in a slip of paper. “There! Franklin didn’t find what he was looking for, but he’s written the best travel book I know.” “Oh, fank you, sir.” Jack took the big volume in both arms, and was making off with it. “And look here, Jack, about that other fellow—the man who did find something up there, you and I won’t tell anybody about that.” “Oh!” He stopped and nodded at Mar over the great book. “All wight. But I may speak to _you_ about it sometimes—” “When we’re alone.” “All wight. Hasn’t he,” Jack lowered his tone to conspirator’s pitch, “hasn’t he ever told anybody but you?” “Oh, he’s told one or two. But in confidence, you know. People he can trust.”