A short while ago a little girl friend of mine was showing me her birthday gifts. Among them was a Bible. It was a beautiful book, bound in soft crimson leather, the child's name stamped on it in gold.
"And who gave you this?" I asked.
"Father," the little girl replied. "See what he has written in it," she added, when the shining letters on the cover had been duly appreciated.
I turned to the fly-leaf and read this:
"To my daughter on her eighth birthday from her father.
"'I give you the end of a golden string:
Only wind it into a ball,—
It will lead you in at Heaven's gate
Built in Jerusalem's wall.'"
"Isn't it lovely?" questioned the child, who had stood by, waiting, while I read.
"Yes," I agreed, "very lovely, and very new."
Her mother, who was listening, smiled slowly. "My father gave me a Bible on my birthday, when I was seven"—she began.
"O mother," interrupted her little girl, "what did grandfather write in it?"