4.  But now, you are there.  The fire light glimmers upon the walls of your cherished home.  The big chair of your father is drawn to its wonted corner by the chimney side; his head, just touched with gray, lies back upon its oaken top.  Opposite sits your mother:  her figure is thin, her look cheerful, yet subdued;—­her arm perhaps resting on your shoulder, as she talks to you in tones of tender admonition, of the days that are to come.

5.  The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock that ticked so plainly when Charlie died is ticking on the mantel still.  The great table in the middle of the room, with its books and work, waits only for the lighting of the evening lamp, to see a return to its stores of embroidery and of story.

6.  Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a flicker of the fire light, and makes it play, as if in wanton, upon the ceiling, lies that big book, reverenced of your New England parents—­the Family Bible.  It is a ponderous, square volume, with heavy silver clasps, that you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint, old pictures, for a study of those prettily bordered pages, which lie between the Testaments, and which hold the Family Record.

7.  There are the Births;—­your father’s and your mother’s; it seems as if they were born a long time ago; and even your own date of birth appears an almost incredible distance back.  Then there are the Marriages;—­only one as yet; and your mother’s name looks oddly to you:  it is hard to think of her as anyone else than your doting parent.

8.  Last of all come the Deaths;—­only one.  Poor Charlie!  How it looks!—­” Died, 12 September, 18—­, Charles Henry, aged four years.”  You know just how it looks.  You have turned to it often; there you seem to be joined to him, though only by the turning of a leaf.

9.  And over your thoughts, as you look at that page of the Record, there sometimes wanders a vague, shadowy fear, which will come,—­that your own name may soon be there.  You try to drop the notion, as if it were not fairly your own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who presumed on your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know.

10.  Yet your mother—­how strange it is!—­has no fears of such dark fancies.  Even now, as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in the room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you that she can not be long with you;—­that the time is coming, when you must be guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the friends of your boyhood.

11.  There is a little pride, and a great deal more of anxiety, in your thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home blaze, while those delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play with the locks upon your brow.  To struggle with the world,—­that is a proud thing; to struggle alone,—­there lies the doubt!  Then crowds in swift upon the calm of boyhood the first anxious thought of youth.