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The great table in the middle of the room, with its books and work, waits only for the lighting of the evening lamp,
房间中央的那张大桌上摆摞着书籍及物件，默默等待夜晚降临的灯光。
to see a return to its stores of embroidery and of story.
唯有置身在这熟悉的光影流泻里，才能恍然依稀回到昔日尘嚣。
Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a flicker of the fire light,
一个矮小身影站着镜子下，眼光不时荒唐地追逐镜面里亮光闪烁，那团映射到天花板上的摇曳火苗，
and makes it play, as if in wanton, upon the ceiling, lies that big book, reverenced of your New England parents—the Family Bible.
曾是你自寻其乐的玩耍；翻动家庭《圣经》，那本迁居新大陆后父母敬畏的经书。
It is a ponderous, square volume, with heavy silver clasps,
那本圣经笨重，方形版面装帧，配有厚实的银色搭扣，
that you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint, old pictures, for a study of those prettily bordered pages,
你经常将大书轻轻摊开，饶有兴致地翻阅书中趣闻，浏览那些古老泛黄的画面，好奇地琢磨镶有彩框的书页，
which lie between the Testaments, and which hold the Family Record.
镶嵌在整套《新约全书》中的彩色插图，以及家族传承的相关记载。
There are the Births;—your father's and your mother's; it seems as if they were born a long time ago;
上面记录着家族成员的出生日期——包括你父母诞日，他们来到这个世界的日子仿佛那么久远，
and even your own date of birth appears an almost incredible distance back.
接着你又找到自己生辰，几乎难以相信的遥远昨天。
Then there are the Marriages;—only one as yet;
书中还记有家庭婚姻——不过仅仅一次，
and your mother's name looks oddly to you: it is hard to think of her as anyone else than your doting parent.
母亲名字在你眼里显得颇为古怪，除去那副极为慈爱的面孔，很难想象母亲的其他模样。
Last of all come the Deaths;—only one. Poor Charlie!
所有人最终都离开了这个世界，唯独一人属于非正常死亡，可怜的查理！
How it looks!—“ Died, 12 September, 18—, Charles Henry, aged four years.”
这究竟怎么回事？家庭圣经里记载：“查理·亨利卒于18xx年，9月12日，时年4岁。”
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.
你只知道世事无常，当年还时常翻动那本《圣经》，不过轻轻将书翻动一页，似乎也随早殇的查理而去。
And over your thoughts, as you look at that page of the Record, there sometimes wanders a vague, shadowy fear,
翻阅浏览着家庭记载，你的思绪翻腾不安，模糊可怖的阴影不时无端闯入
which will come,—that your own name may soon be there.
很快，你的名字将会赫然出现在那本书上。
