So when he entered his house he
went straight and silently upstairs to his library, and took down
the great, large, handsome Bible, all grand and golden, with its
leaves adhering together from the bookbinder's press, so little had
it been used.
On the first page (which fell open to Mr. Carson's view) were
written the names of his children, and his own.
"Henry John, son of the above John and Elizabeth Carson.
Born Sept. 29th, 1815."
To make the entry complete, his death should now be added. But the
page became hidden by the gathering mist of tears.
Thought upon thought, and recollection upon recollection came
crowding in, from the remembrance of the proud day when he had
purchased the costly book, in order to write down the birth of the
little babe of a day old.
He laid his head down on the open page, and let the tears fall
slowly on the spotless leaves.
His son's murderer was discovered; had confessed his guilt, and yet
(strange to say) he could not hate him with the vehemence of hatred
he had felt, when he had imagined him a young man, full of lusty
life, defying all laws, human and divine.
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