"To my daughter on her eighth birthday from her father.
"'I give you the end of a golden string:
Only wind it into a ball,--
It will lead you in at Heaven's gate
Built in Jerusalem's wall.'"
"Isn't it lovely?" questioned the child, who had stood by, waiting,
while I read.
"Yes," I agreed, "very lovely, and very new."
Her mother, who was listening, smiled slowly. "My father gave me a Bible
on my birthday, when I was seven"--she began.
"O mother," interrupted her little girl, "what did grandfather write in
it?"
"Go and look," her mother said. "You will find it on the table by my
bed."
The child eagerly ran out of the room. In a few moments she returned,
the Bible of her mother's childhood in her hands. It also was a
beautiful book; bound, too, in crimson leather, and with the name of its
owner stamped on it in gold. And on the fly-leaf was written,--
"To my daughter, on her seventh birthday, from her father."