He knew nothing of my only world--books.
"Can you read ?" he asked me at last, suddenly.
"I should rather think so." And I could not help smiling, being somewhat proud of my erudition.
"And write ?" "Oh, yes; certainly." He thought a minute, and then said, in a low tone, "I can't write, and I don't know when I shall be able to learn; I wish you would put down something in a book for me." "That I will." He took out of his pocket a little case of leather, with an under one of black silk; within this, again, was a book.

He would not let it go out of his hands, but held it so that I could see the leaves.

It was a Greek Testament.
"Look here." He pointed to the fly-leaf, and I read: "Guy Halifax, his Book.
"Guy Halifax, gentleman, married Muriel Joyce, spinster, May 17, in the year of our Lord 1779.
"John Halifax, their son, born June 18, 1780." There was one more entry, in a feeble, illiterate female hand: "Guy Halifax, died January 4, 1781." "What shall I write, John ?" said I, after a minute or so of silence.
"I'll tell you presently.

Can I get you a pen ?" He leaned on my shoulder with his left hand, but his right never once let go of the precious book.
"Write--'Muriel Halifax, died January 1, 1791.'" "Nothing more ?" "Nothing more." He looked at the writing for a minute or two, dried it carefully by the fire, replaced the book in its two cases, and put it into his pocket.
He said no other word but "Thank you," and I asked him no questions.
This was all I ever heard of the boy's parentage: nor do I believe he knew more himself.

He was indebted to no forefathers for a family history: the chronicle commenced with himself, and was altogether his own making.