Old Sylvester Peabody sat in the centre of the family, moving his body to and fro gently, and lifting his white head up and down upon his breast; his whole look and manner strongly arresting the attention of all; of the children not the least. After a while the old man paused, and looking mildly about, addressed the household.
"This is a happy day, my children," he said, "but the seeds of it were sown, you must allow an old man to say, long, long ago. If one good Being had not died in a far country and a very distant time, we could not have this comfort now."
The children watched the old grandfather more closely.
"I am an old man, and shall be with you, I feel, but for a little while yet; as one who stands at the gate of the world to come, looking through, and through which he is soon to pass, will you not allow me to believe that I thought of the hopes of your immortal spirits in your youth?"
As being the eldest, and answering for the rest, William Peabody replied, "We will."
"Did I not teach you then, or strive my best to teach, that there was but one Holy God?"
"You did, father—you did!" the widow Margaret answered.
"That his only Son died for us?"
"Often—often!" said Mrs. Carrack.