The mother looked upward: the spirit’s vision was unimpaired, though the _sight_ was fading day by day. Still she always looked upward, as if all her consolation came from thence. “I do not understand, sir,” she said, simply, “what you have observed has to do with my Richard; but if you are sure the book won’t harm him, won’t shake his faith, or make him think too highly of worldly gifts--” She paused, and then added-- “You, sir, being a Christian man, know best. I am certain it teaches plenty of hope _for this world_, and great reliance upon human gifts.” “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. “Then, sir, you are quite satisfied with Richard.” The poor woman’s hands trembled as she folded them together, and the long-suppressed tears flowed over her cheeks. “I beg your pardon for troubling you--I have no right to do so, you are so kind to him; only, sir, please to remember that he has two fathers in heaven, and that I--poor creature that I am--feel accountable to _both_. I cannot sleep by night: I fear I neglect my duty, and yet I fear to overtax his; he gains knowledge so quickly that I tremble for his faith; and when I am sitting alone, between the dimness of my own sight and of the twilight, a thin, filmy shadow stands before me, and I think that I can see the parting of its lips, and hear them whisper--‘Where is my child--does he seek to win Christ?’”