The weeks that followed were happy ones in “The House of the Misty Star.”  Page Hanaford dropped in frequently after supper, and my liking for the boy grew stronger with each visit.  His good breeding and gentle rearing were as innate as the brightness of his eyes; and no less evident was his sore need of companionship, though when he talked it was on diversified subjects, never personal ones.  If the time between visits were longer than I thought it should be, I invented excuses and sent for him.  I asked little favors of him which necessitated his coming to my house; then I asked more, which kept him.

Thus it was that many delightful hours were spent in the cozy, cheerful living-room of the little house perched high upon the hill.  In one shadowy corner Jane Gray usually sat, busy with her endless knitting of bibs for babies.  Close beside her the maids, Pine Tree and Maple Leaf, looked up from their seats upon the floor, intent on every movement of her flying fingers that they too might quickly learn and help to “bib” the small citizens of their country.

From my place on one side of the reading lamp I could look, unobserved, at Page Hanaford on the other side, as he sat in the deep chair and stretched his long limbs toward the glowing grate stove, while he read to us tales of travel and fiction.  Jane said they were as delightful as his voice.  I was often too busy studying the boy to give much heed to his reading, but when he spoke it was a different matter.

His familiarity with the remote places of the world, centers of commerce, and the names of men high in affairs, made me wonder and wonder again what had led him to choose for advance in fortune this Buddhist stronghold of moats and medieval castles, so limited in possibilities, so far from contact with foreign things.  The teaching of English, as I had good reason to know, yielded many a hearty laugh, but a scant living.  There was no other opening here for Europeans.

Every time I saw Page, the more certain I was, not only of his ability, but of his past experience in bigger things.  The inconsistencies of his story began to irritate me like the pricking of a pin which the presence of company forbade my removing.  However, I did not question him openly; I tried not to do so in my heart.  I found for him more students as well as excuses to mend his clothes and have him with us.  I scolded him for taking cold, filled him up with stews, brews, and tonics, and with Jane as chief enthusiast—­she had fallen an easy victim—­we managed to make something of a home life for him.

The boy could not hide his pleasure in our little parties; but it was with protest that he accepted so much waiting on and coddling.  He was always deferential, but delighted in gently laughing at Jane and telling me stories that could not happen out of a book.

Sometimes his spirits ran high and found expression in song or a whistled tune.  When there was a sudden knock or when he was definitely questioned, there was something in his attitude which I would have named fear, had not every line in his lean, muscular body contradicted the suggestion.