The latter took no apparent heed of the remark, but passed on. But the child's pleading reminded him of the low, broken voice he had so lately heard, penitently and humbly urging the same extenuation of his great guilt.
"I did not know what I was doing."
He had some association with those words; he had heard, or read of that plea somewhere before. Where was it?
Could it be—?
He would look when he got home. So when he entered his house he went straight and silently up-stairs to his library, and took down the great large handsome Bible, all grand and golden, with its leaves adhering together from the bookbinder's press, so little had it been used.
On the first page (which fell open to Mr. Carson's view) were written the names of his children, and his own.
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"Henry John, son of the above John and Elizabeth Carson. Born, Sept. 29th, 1815." |
To make the entry complete, his death should now be added. But the page became hidden by the gathering mist of tears.
Thought upon thought, and recollection upon recollection came crowding in, from the remembrance of the proud day when he had purchased the costly book, in order to write down the birth of the little babe of a day old.
He laid his head down on the open page, and let the tears fall slowly on the spotless leaves.