"Go and look," her mother said. "You will find it on the table by my bed."
The child eagerly ran out of the room. In a few moments she returned, the Bible of her mother's childhood in her hands. It also was a beautiful book; bound, too, in crimson leather, and with the name of its owner stamped on it in gold. And on the fly-leaf was written,—
"To my daughter, on her seventh birthday, from her father."
Beneath this, however, was inscribed no modern poetry, but
"Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them."
[Illustration: IN THE INFANT CLASS]
The little girl read it aloud. "It sounds as though you wouldn't be happy if you didn't remember, mother," she said, dubiously.
"Well, darling," her mother replied, "and so you wouldn't."
The child took her own Bible and read aloud the verse her father had written. "But, mother, this sounds as though you would be happy if you did remember."
"And so you will, dear," her mother made reply. "It is the same thing," she added.