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It is one of the mercies of country life that the years, as they pass, leave so very little to be said. There are the seasons, which come round in their order; there are the Sunday dinners, at which the same dishes are set upon the same table, by the same servants, in the same places, and in which the only visible change, from one year to the next, is that the children have grown up the wall. So, it was at Delaford and the nearby parsonage.

On one wet day, the children had finished their lessons at the Delaford nursery. Sarah had remained behind to visit with Anne, while waiting for Henry to be free from his tutor.

Having returned to the parsonage, and finished their tea, Mary had been reading to Ned for nearly half an hour, and Ned was beginning to suspect that the story, whatever its merits, was in danger of losing its audience.

He was nine years old now and considered himself quite beyond the age at which he ought to be read aloud to. Nevertheless, when Mary had offered to finish the story she had begun the previous evening, he had accepted with very little hesitation. He was particularly fond of Mary, who had taught him his letters when he was small, endured his spelling mistakes with admirable patience, and never seemed to think him a nuisance, even when he was being one.

Unfortunately, he was now discovering that her reading voice, so comforting when he was younger, possessed certain qualities that were not altogether conducive to remaining awake.

Mary sat beside the window, her sewing laid aside, and read with her customary gentleness. Every word was clear, every sentence perfectly pronounced, and every passage delivered with precisely the same soothing steadiness that often felt like a light tingling at the scalp and down his spine. And it mattered not whether the hero was pursued by robbers, separated from his beloved, or in danger of losing his entire fortune, Mary read on as peacefully as though she were describing the contents of the linen cupboard.

Ned shifted in his chair.

Mary continued.

At last, his head nodded forward. He caught himself just in time and glanced guiltily towards his mother, Elinor, who sat opposite them mending a pair of Edward’s socks. She had not looked up from her work, but Ned had a distinct suspicion that she had noticed everything.

He resolved to make one final effort.

“Mary?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Has the gentleman discovered who stole the jewels yet?”

“Not yet, Ned. He has only just arrived at the house.”

“Oh.” Ned considered this. “I thought he had arrived some time ago.”

“He has, but you must remember that he has only just been introduced to the family.”

“Of course.”

Mary smiled and returned to the page.

Ned listened with renewed determination. He really did wish to know what happened to the gentleman, and there was nobody he would rather have sat beside him than Mary. He had not forgotten how she had once sat patiently with him for hours, teaching him to distinguish one letter from another, celebrating his first successful sentence as though he had accomplished something extraordinary. She had never laughed at his mistakes, unlike Sarah who had recently begun to laugh loudly and would later bring them up to Henry and Anne. She was always trying to best him at everything and would stick out her tongue once she had done it.

Mary had always made him feel that whatever difficulty he encountered, she would find a way to help him through it.

He loved her dearly.

It was therefore a matter of some distress to discover that he could scarcely keep his eyes open whilst she was reading, and that he yawned.

“Are you tired, Ned?” Mary asked.

“Not at all. But I was wondering,” said he at last, “whether we might perhaps leave the rest until later. I should very much like to know what happens. But I think I might enjoy it more if you finished the story at bedtime.”

“Very well, dear. We shall do just that.”

She closed the book and laid it upon the table beside her.

Ned felt an immediate improvement in his circumstances.

“That is very kind of you, Mary.”

She reached over and smoothed his hair back from his forehead, as she had done when he was much younger. “Then you shall hear the remainder tonight.”

Ned rose from his chair, feeling that he had conducted the matter with considerable skill. He had neither hurt Mary’s feelings nor been obliged to endure another half-hour of reading. Indeed, he had arranged for the story to be continued at precisely the time when he would be most grateful for a soothing voice and least likely to remain conscious long enough to hear it.