"Your mother always went to the minister when anything was wanted. And you tell him John Graham wants that pew that he had when the church was first built—Number 25, on the east side, by the second window—the one that looks out on the mountains. Your mother and I put a sight of work and good hard money into the building of that church, and I ought to have stood right by it all along and not dropped out just because Sunday clothes cost."
"Oh, pa, did you help build that church?"
"Guess there's plenty round as would tell you so, if you asked, though this minister don't know, 'cause he's new."
"Say, pa, can't I have a red Bible? Of course it wouldn't be just like getting into Sunday-school regular, like the primaries, but I would like a red Bible."
"There it is again! All wrong. There's your mother's Bible; I hain't meant not to give it to you, only I was a-keepin' it till the further end of the road came when you'd 'preciate it better."
John Graham got up, and taking down a half-filled lamp, lighted it, the little girl keeping close at his side. From that same upper bureau drawer he took out a small package and, undoing the handkerchief wrapped around it, brought to view a Bible with a gilt clasp.
"It ain't a red Bible, but it's a Bible that has been read," he said. "And here's your name, just as your mother wrote it for you, almost the last time she handled it."
He opened the fly-leaf, and little Martha, drawing up close to his arm, read:
"Oh, pa, how I am being taken into things!" said the little girl, the tears toppling over her eyes, and her cheeks bright and rosy.