Before her was a table covered with books, and she took up one to read.

I knew the volume; it was written by one whose genius had a deep power of fascination.

Soon the mother became lost in its exciting pages, and remained buried in them for hours.
At length, after turning the last page, she closed the book; and then came the thought of her wayward boy.

But, her feelings toward him had undergone no change; she was still angry, because of his disobedience.
Another book lay upon the table; a book of no pretensions, and written with the simple purpose of doing good.

It was commonplace, because it dealt with things in the common life around us.