"I came in for one," said Owen, his face bright with satisfaction as he placed the Bible he had gained in his father's hands. "I know you will be pleased, father. It's the prize for Scripture knowledge." "Eh, that's good!" said David, with a beaming glance. "Your mother was right, after all. She would have it that you'd bring home a prize." And then the parents looked at each other with eyes that said plainly, "Was there ever such a lad as ours?" "I am glad they gave you a Bible," said his mother; "it will be such a nice one to take away with you. Such a beautiful cover it has!" "Ay, it's well bound," said his father, "but I doubt it 'll not last so long as that old Bible of ours indoors. They don't make such books nowadays." "I don't want it to last for ever," said Owen carelessly. "I'll have another when I am married—a big family Bible." "You'll have our own family Bible," said his father, almost reproachfully. "You will never want another while that lasts. Now come inside. I am going to write in the old Bible how you won this prize at Ashworth Sunday-school on the last Sunday you spent at home before going to town to learn business." Owen made a comical grimace behind his father's back. He thought his father rather crazed about the old Bible, but he followed him into their common living-room, a long low apartment, with heavy beams overhead, and a broad latticed window with a deep cushioned seat beneath it. Owen fetched pen and ink and stood dutifully by his father's side, ready to assist in any spelling difficulties. Whilst the old man, slowly and laboriously, for he was no ready writer, entered in the old volume the fact he desired to record. "You'll have to enter my name here some day, my lad," he said, when he had finished, "mine and your mother's too; but she'll outlive me many years, belike." "I hope not, David," she said softly. "Eh, why not?" returned her husband. "You'll have your son to lean upon then." "I wish you would not talk that way, father," said Owen uneasily; "just as I am going away, too! I am sure I hope it will be long enough ere any more entries are made in this book." He closed it as he spoke, and carried it back to its place on the side-table. "Read us a chapter from your own Bible, lad," said his mother from the chimney corner; "the kettle won't boil for another ten minutes." "Very well," said Owen carelessly. "What shall I read?" His father named Psalm 103. Owen was a good reader, and he read the grand old words in a clear, expressive manner. "'Like as a father pitieth his children,'" repeated the old man slowly when he had ended. "My son, you'll not forget your father's God when you're away in that great city?" "All right, father," replied Owen hastily. And no more was said.