Arrived at their little sitting-room at the top of the stair, she hastened to shake up the pillows and make the sofa comfortable for him. He lay down, and she covered him with a rug; then ran to her room for a book, and read to him while Beenie was getting the tea. She chose a poem with which Mr. Wardour had made her acquainted almost the last tune she was at Thornwick--that was several weeks ago now, for plainly Letty was not so glad to see her as she used to be--it was Milton's little ode "On Time," written for inscription on a clock--one of the grandest of small poems. 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." "So do I, father dear," answered Mary simply, the tears rushing into her eyes at the thought that perhaps she was not one; "I want me to be a Christian." "Yes, my love," he went on; "but it is not that I do not think you a Christian; it is that I want you to be a downright real Christian, not one that is but trying to feel as a Christian ought to feel. I have lost so much precious time in that way!" "Tell me--tell me," cried Mary, clasping her other hand over his. "What would you have me do?"