“But you did read it through--did you--the last time, I mean?” “Oh yes, father. I never like to leave the loose end of a thing hanging about.” “That’s right, my boy; that’s right. Well, I think you’d better not open the book again for a long time--say twenty years at least. It’s a great deal too good a book to let yourself get tired of. By that time I trust you will be able to understand it a great deal better than you can at present.” I felt a little sorry that I was not to look at the Pilgrim’s Progress for twenty years; but I am very glad of it now. “We must not spoil good books by reading them too much,” my father added. “It is often better to think about them than to read them; and it is best never to do either when we are tired of them. We should get tired of the sunlight itself, beautiful as it is, if God did not send it away every night. We’re not even fit to have moonlight always. The moon is buried in the darkness every month. And because we can bear nothing for any length of time together, we are sent to sleep every night, that we may begin fresh again in the morning.” “I see, father, I see,” I answered. We talked on until we came in sight of John Jamieson’s cottage. What a poor little place it was to look at--built of clay, which had hardened in the sun till it was just one brick! But it was a better place to live in than it looked, for no wind could come through the walls, although there was plenty of wind about. Three little windows looked eastward to the rising sun, and one to the south: it had no more. It stood on the side of a heathy hill, which rose up steep behind it, and bending round sheltered it from the north. A low wall of loose stones enclosed a small garden, reclaimed from the hill, where grew some greens and cabbages and potatoes, with a flower here and there between. In summer it was pleasant enough, for the warm sun makes any place pleasant. But in winter it must have been a cold dreary place indeed. There was no other house within sight of it. A little brook went cantering down the hill close to the end of the cottage, singing merrily. “It is a long way to the sea, but by its very nature the water will find it at last,” said my father, pointing to the stream as we crossed it by the single stone that was its bridge. He had to bend his head low to enter the cottage. An old woman, the sick man’s wife, rose from the side of the chimney to greet us. My father asked how John was. “Wearing away,” was her answer. “But he’ll be glad to see you.” We turned in the direction in which her eyes guided us. The first thing I saw was a small withered-looking head, and the next a withered-looking hand, large and bony. The old man lay in a bed closed in with boards, so that very little light fell upon him; but his hair glistened silvery through the gloom. My father drew a chair beside him. John looked up, and seeing who it was, feebly held out his hand. My father took it and stroked it, and said: