In spite of his desire to
retain the revengeful feeling he considered as a duty to his dead
son, something of pity would steal in for the poor, wasted skeleton
of a man, the smitten creature, who had told him of his sin, and
implored his pardon that night.
In the days of his childhood and youth, Mr. Carson had been
accustomed to poverty; but it was honest, decent poverty; not the
grinding squalid misery he had remarked in every part of John
Barton's house, and which contrasted strangely with the pompous
sumptuousness of the room in which he now sat. Unaccustomed wonder
filled his mind at the reflection of the different lots of the
brethren of mankind.
Then he roused himself from his reverie, and turned to the object of
his search--the Gospel, where he half expected to find the tender
pleading: "They know not what they do."
It was murk midnight by this time, and the house was still and
quiet. There was nothing to interrupt the old man in his unwonted
study.
Years ago, the Gospel had been his task-book in learning to read.
So many years ago, that he had become familiar with the events
before he could comprehend the Spirit that made the Life.
Pages:
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743