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That night, Mary tapped gently upon Ned’s bedroom door before entering.

He was already in bed, the covers drawn up to his waist and his hair in a state of considerable disorder. A candle burned upon the bedside table, and his book lay open beside it, ready for her arrival.

“Are you settled, Ned?”

“Quite.”

Mary sat beside him and took up the book. “Now, where did we leave our unfortunate gentleman?”

“At the house,” Ned replied promptly. “Just as he was introduced to the family.”

“Very good. I am pleased to see you were paying attention.”

Ned arranged himself more comfortably against his pillows.

Her voice was gentle and even, each word falling into the next with the familiar, unhurried cadence he had known all his life. Ned listened contentedly. There was no longer any need to struggle against sleep, nor any reason to pretend that he was interested in every twist of the plot. He could simply lie there and enjoy the sound of her voice.

He had discovered, to his great satisfaction, that what he had once thought a failing in Mary’s reading was, in fact, its greatest virtue.

Within minutes, his eyelids began to droop.

Mary continued, quite unaware that her audience was rapidly diminishing.

The gentleman had just discovered a letter which promised to alter the course of his affairs when Ned’s breathing grew slow and regular. His hand, which had been resting upon the coverlet, relaxed against the pillow.

Mary glanced down.

“Ned?”

There was no answer.

She smiled tenderly and continued for another few lines, unwilling to wake him merely to finish a story he would hear tomorrow. Then she marked her place, closed the book, and carefully set it upon the table.

For a moment, she remained seated beside him, watching his sleeping face.

It seemed scarcely possible that he was nine already. She could still remember the day he was born. He had been the sweetest baby, then the chubby little boy, always with his thumb in his mouth, later struggling over his letters, who had been so proud when he first managed to read a sentence without her help, and who had once insisted that he would never learn to write as neatly as she did.

Now he had a ready answer for almost everything and a most inconvenient habit of believing himself considerably wiser than he was. He and Sarah were often at odds.

Yet he still wanted his sister to read him a bedtime story.

Mary bent to kiss his forehead, drew the covers a little higher about his shoulders, and rose quietly. She turned down the candle until the room was left in a soft, dim glow, then slipped out, shutting the door gently behind her.

In the hallway, she nearly collided with Elinor.

“Oh, Mamma,” Mary whispered, smiling. “He is asleep already.”

Elinor glanced towards the closed door.

“Is he, indeed?”

“Before I had finished the first few pages. I do not believe he heard a word after the gentleman discovered the letter.” Mary shook her head, her expression full of affection. “Is it not precious? Nine years old, and still, he wants his sister to read him a bedtime story. I thought he might have outgrown it by now.”

Elinor’s face softened.

“I daresay there are some things a boy never quite outgrows.”

Mary smiled and kissed her mother’s cheek before making her way to her own room.