The Torn Bible; Or, Hubert's Best Friend

								

for the night.
It was a lovely autumn morning in the year 1792; everything round
Hubert's home looked beautiful, and his brothers and sisters, as they
clustered around him, and gave him their last kisses, each extorted a
promise that he would write a long letter to them very soon. Excitement
had driven off every regret at parting with him, and one young brother
ran off long before the time, to keep watch at the gate for the coach
coming.
The time for Hubert to go drew near, and his father, infirm from recent
sickness, took his hand as he bade him farewell, and laying the other
upon his head, reminded him once more of lessons long ago taught, and
long ago forgotten; gave him again good counsel concerning his future
life; then pressed him earnestly to his heart, and prayed God to keep
him. Then came his mother; she had already poured out the deep sorrow
she felt at his leaving her, and had endeavoured to school herself to
the parting; without a word she threw her arms round his neck, and bent
her head for some minutes over him. "Oh, Hubert," she at length said,
"when sickness or trouble comes upon you, you will be far from home, and
there will be none of us, who love you so dearly, near to comfort you,
and no one to try and guide you right; but see here, I have a Bible;
take it, treasure it as my last gift, and promise me that you will read
it every day. I care not how little you read, but promise that you will
read some: you will never regret it, and may it teach you the way to
heaven."
"I will read it, mother; I wish I were as good as you are; I know I am
not like the others. Mother dear, don't cry; I will try and do as you
wish; good-bye!" and after kissing her affectionately he hurried from
the house.
The coach was at the gate, round which the children gathered, and for a
few minutes every one seemed busy. The servant-man was there with
Hubert's trunk and a small leather bag; the nurse had come round from
the back garden with the baby; cook followed, and stood a little way
behind the gate with her arms half wrapped up in her apron; and the
housemaid stood at one of the open bed-room windows; while on the steps
of the door were his parents, joining in the farewell to the first-born.
Pilot, the house-dog, seemed to have some notion of the passing event,
for he had come to the gate too, and did not, as was his usual custom,
race and gambol with the children, but sat down amongst them all,
apparently in a thoughtful mood. Hubert kissed his brothers and sisters,
and then took his seat amongst the passengers; then came many a
good-bye, and waving of handkerchiefs, and the coach rolled away.
"He's gone," said his father, as the coach wended its way round the
hill. "Never mind, Mary; it was not for this we trained him, but we've
done our duty, I hope, in letting him go, for he was determined, and
would perhaps soon have taken his own way; poor lad! Perhaps amongst