"All right, peony face, I'll stay," and, clapping her heartily on the shoulder, he took his hat and went for a stroll through the town before going to bed. Derrice went into her husband's room, and, taking his Bible from the stand by his bed, carried it up-stairs. When he came in a few minutes later he found her sitting by a table in her sitting-room, deep in the story of the creation. "Who wrote all this?" she asked, looking up. It seemed almost incredible to the young man that she should not be professing an ignorance she did not possess, yet he knew that she was honest. The Bible had not entered as a factor into her wandering life. He was a product of religious elements, she of worldly ones. In her training religious obligations had been ignored. She was a sweet moral blossom only; it rested with him to add the fragrance of religion to her other attractions. "Shall I read to you, dolly?" he said, in quiet delight; and, taking the book from her, he explained its source and inspiration, and then plunged into the recital of God's early dealings with men. He read on and on, until he had finished Genesis, his wife meanwhile making no comment, but listening with a flushed and eager interest. He paused when he reached Exodus, but a gesture from her urged him on. At last she took the book from him. "You are getting hoarse, I will read to you." It seemed to Justin that he would never grow weary. The exquisite glow of happiness that pervaded him would keep him awake till all hours of the night, yet after a time he felt himself flagging; and, seeing that she was unwilling to go to bed, he slipped to the sofa for a brief nap. After what seemed to him a few minutes, he opened his eyes. But the night was over. Daylight was creeping into the room; and there at the table still sat Derrice, her head dropped on her arms, the book pushed from her, and the gas burning in a sickly glare above. He sprang up and shook from him the rug she had carefully tucked about him. She was asleep, and her hands were cold. The fire had long ago died out, and the room was chilly. She had not been able to tear herself from the book, whose pages were full of such entrancing novelty. It was open at the account of the crucifixion. The thin leaves were blistered and her cheeks were tear-stained. Stumbling over the law and the prophets, she had probably turned to the New Testament for clearer reading. Perhaps, too, she wished to see for herself whether the prophesied One had really come, and what was the manner of his coming.