Who can
tell? As I passed that way I fancied I could distinguish a faint,
mysterious odour which I associated with the rosewood box: an
old-fashioned odour composed of many simples.
On the stand near the head of the bed and close to the candlestick is a
Bible--a little, familiar, daily Bible, very different indeed from the
portentous and imposing family Bible which reposes on the centre-table
in the front room, which is never opened except to record a death. It
has been well worn, this small nightly Bible, by much handling. Is
there a care or a trouble in this world, here is the sure talisman. She
seeks (and finds) the inspired text. Wherever she opens the book she
seizes the first words her eyes fall upon as a prophetic message to her.
Then she goes forth like some David with his sling, so panoplied with
courage that she is daunted by no Goliath of the Philistines. Also she
has a worshipfulness of all ministers. Sometimes when the Scotch
Preacher comes to tea and remarks that her pudding is good, I firmly
believe that she interprets the words into a spiritual message for her.
Besides the drawer, the rosewood box, and the worn Bible, there is a
certain Black Cape. Far be it from me to attempt a description, but I
can say with some assurance that it also occupies a shrine.
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