Yes; but the book is reopened sometimes, where a sprig of rue has been placed to mark between the leaves.
I didn't change. I was long past changing. And I followed my old pursuits; went to my old haunts; wore my old clothes, as I do now, from day to day.
So years went on, until one dreary afternoon in November—one bright and sunny afternoon it might have been for its influence on my dim calendar—I was rummaging one of the boxes of a bookstall in Holborn, when the keeper of it came out and put two or three battered volumes among the rest. Instinctively I took one of them up and opened it. A great throb came into my heart and made me reel; for it was a prayer-book, and there on the title-page was her name—hers, and in my handwriting of years and years ago. The prayer-book that I had given her.
"Dear me, sir, you look faint-like," says the dealer; "let me fetch you a stool, or come in and sit down a bit."
"Can you—tell—me," I gasped, "where you bought this book? Where and when?"
"Where? Why here. When? Why five minutes ago, along with two or three more, of no particular value, of a poor little thing that said it was all her mother had to part with—Stop, sir, stop; why, there she is coming out of the grocer's shop this very minute. Run after the old gentleman, James; he'll do himself a mischief, or be run over, or something."
For I had dashed after the child like a madman, my hat off, the open book in my hand. James had outrun me though, and was now coming back with a child—a young girl—poorly clad; oh! so poorly clad; but yet like Mary—my Mary—on the day I wrote that name in the book still open in my hand.
"Mary!" I gasped.
"Yes, sir," said the child; "I must make haste home, or my mother will have no tea."
. . . . . .