For some time both were busily engaged, and too engrossed even to talk.
Jonas was the first to break the silence. "Dear me," he said, "my old back isn't so fond of stooping as it used to be; it begins to cry out now. I must rest a few minutes."
Rob looked up. "I suppose, Mr. Jasper, you are getting old."
"I suppose I am, Rob; I shall never see seventy-nine again."
The child opened his eyes. "Seventy-nine? Why, Mr. Jasper, I should think you'll soon have to die, won't you?"
"Bless the child! where do you get your talk from? Die? No. Why, there's lots of folks live to be ninety and more. Of course there's no knowing. I shall have to go when my time comes;" and as he said the words an uneasy look came over his face, that had often been there lately. Supposing he did live to be ninety or more, why, it was only putting off, not getting rid of, that meeting with God, that must come to each one sooner or later. He had not yet forgotten what Phil said about the stain that every sin left on the heart, and many an uncomfortable thought had he had about it. Once or twice he had been on the point of taking down his old Bible; but the remembrance of Phil's remarks that God's Word "showed us up," and the inner conviction of his own conscience that it would do so, made him hesitate; and so, whilst dreading its warnings, he missed its precious promises of comfort, missed the loving messages of the loving Father, who, while hating sin, yet loved the sinner, and longed to pardon and to save.
"Ah, Rob, that won't do;" and the old man woke up from his reverie. "You mustn't mix those rags. Put the white ones by themselves here, and the coloured ones in the corner."
Rob looked up astonished. "Why, Mr. Jasper, they're all so dirty and torn they can't be any good."
"Yes, they are, though; those white ones will be made into paper."
"Paper?"