Her father knew next to nothing of literature; having
pondered his New Testament, however, for thirty years, he was
capable of understanding Milton's best--to the childlike mind the
best is always simplest and easiest-not unfrequently the
_only_ kind it can lay hold of. When she ended, he made her
read it again, and then again; not until she had read it six
times did he seem content. And every time she read it, Mary found
herself understanding it better. It was gradually growing very
precious.
Her father had made no remark; but, when she lifted her eyes from
the sixth reading, she saw that his face shone, and, as the last
words left her lips, he took up the line like a refrain, and
repeated it after her:
"'Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, O Time!'
"That will do now, Mary, I thank you," he said. "I have got a
good hold of it, I think, and shall be able to comfort myself
with it when I wake in the night. The man must have been very
like the apostle Paul."
He said no more. The tea was brought, and he drank a cup of it,
but could not eat; and, as he could not, neither could Mary.
"I want a long sleep," he said; and the words went to his child's
heart--she dared not question herself why. When the tea-things
were removed, he called her.
"Mary," he said, "come here. I want to speak to you."
She kneeled beside him,
"Mary," he said again, taking her little hand in his two long,
bony ones, "I love you, my child, to that degree I can not say;
and I want you, I do want you, to be a Christian.
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