“No, no!” his mother laughed, stroking his head. “You see, the good fairy would always be watching, too, and the good fairy wouldn’t let the bad fairy hurt the pretty little boy.” The apprehensive expression was not altogether soothed from the pretty little boy’s face. However, he said: “Go on. Tell what happened. Did the pretty little boy——” “Lucius!” Mrs. Thomas exclaimed, “don’t stay here to be bored by Luddie and me. I’ve got to tell him this story——” “Yes,” Ludlum eagerly agreed. “An’ then afterward she has to read me a chapter in our book.” “So you go and make John tell _you_ a story, Lucius. I have to be polite to Luddie because he’s had such a fright, poor blessed child!” Lucius was obedient: he rejoined John upon the porch, and the two men chatted for a time. “What book is Jennie reading to the boy?” Mr. Allen inquired, after a subsequent interval of silence. “I don’t know just now. Classic fiction of some sort, probably. She’s great on preparing his mind to be literary; reads an hour to him every day, and sometimes longer—translations—mythology—everything. All about gods and goddesses appearing out of the air to heroes, and Medusa heads and what not. Then standard works: Cooper, Bulwer, Scott, Hugo—some of the great romances.” “I see,” said Lucius. “She always did go at things thoroughly. I remember,” he went on, with a musing chuckle, “I remember how I got hold of Bulwer’s ‘Zanoni’ and ‘Strange Story’ when I was about ten years old. By George! I’ve been afraid to go home in the dark ever since!” “You have?” John smiled; then sent a serious and inquiring glance at the visitor, who remained placid. “Of course Jennie doesn’t read ‘Zanoni’ to Ludlum.” “No, she wouldn’t,” said Lucius. “Not till he’s older. She’d read him much less disturbing things at his age, of course.” His host made no additional comment upon the subject, but appeared to sit in some perplexity. Mr. Allen observed him calmly; then, after a time, went into the house—to get a cigar of his own, he said. In the hall he paused, listening. From the library came Mrs. Thomas’s voice, reading with fine dramatic fire: “‘What! thou frontless dastard, thou—thou who didst wait for opened gate and lowered bridge, when Conrad Horst forced his way over moat and wall, must _thou_ be malapert? Knit him up to the stanchions of the hall-window! He shall beat time with his feet while we drink a cup to his safe passage to the devil!’ “‘The doom was scarce sooner pronounced than accomplished; and in a moment the wretch wrestled out his last agonies, suspended from the iron bars. His body still hung there when our young hero entered the hall, and, intercepting the pale moonbeam, threw on the castle-floor an uncertain shadow, which dubiously yet fearfully intimated the nature of the substance which produced it. “‘When the syndic——’” Ludlum interrupted. “Mamma, what’s a stanchion?” His voice was low and a little husky.