"
I knew the meaning of the words "wrinkles," and "old age." Godfather
Gilpin's forehead had unusually deep furrows, and, almost against my
will, I turned so quickly to look if his wrinkles were at all like the
graves in the churchyard, that Taylor's _Sermons_, in its heavy binding,
slipped from the pulpit and fell to the ground.
And Godfather Gilpin woke up, and (quite forgetting that he was really
the old gentleman in the pew with the knocker) said, "Dear me, dear me!
is that Jeremy Taylor that you are knocking about like a football? My
dear child, I can't lend you my books to play with if you drop them on
to the floor."
I took it up in my arms and carried it sorrowfully to Godfather Gilpin.
He was very kind, and said it was not hurt, and I might go on playing
with the others; but I could see him stroking its brown leather and gold
back, as if it had been bruised and wanted comforting, and I was far too
sorry about it to go on preaching, even if I had had anything to preach.
I picked up the smallest book I could see in the congregation, and sat
down and pretended to read. There were pictures in it, but I turned over
a great many, one after the other, before I could see any of them, my
eyes were so full of tears of mortification and regret.
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