“Your pardon, my good lady,” said the bookseller; “but which of our gifts is not divine?”
“Ay, sir, but we must acknowledge their origin; and, as my dear husband used to say, not be too fond of setting the farthing-candle of reason to give light to the sun of revelation. He made me understand that.”
She rose to withdraw.
“I fear you are not satisfied, even now.”
She shook her head.
“I pray night and day that he may be so guided as to win heaven. I would fain know what to do,” she continued, still more feebly; “you are so good to him, sir—may God bless you for it! But the lad—and that book. I wish he had taken to it when my sight was strong, I could have read it then: now, if he reads it to me, I think he picks out the passages he knows I would like, and leaves the rest.”
“Did he ever read you the great man’s epitaph, written by himself?”
“Yes, sir: there is hope in the last lines about his appearing (after death) in a new and more beautiful edition, corrected and amended by the Author. Certainly, no bad man (Christianly speaking) could frame that.”
“Bad man!” repeated the bookseller, “Why there are scores of editions of his works!”
This, as a proof of his goodness, did not strike the widow.