“What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?”
“Yes, the language of those who bring you things.”
“The language of those who did, dear; they bring them now no longer. They call me a fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calf-skin.”
“That’s metaphor,” said I, “English, but metaphorical; what an odd language! So you would like to have a Bible,—shall I buy you one?”
“I am poor, dear—no money since I left off the other trade.”
“Well, then, I’ll buy you one.”
“No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know—I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it.”
“That will never do,” said I, “more especially as I should be sure to be caught, not having made taking of things my trade; but I’ll tell you what I’ll do—try and exchange this book of yours for a Bible; who knows for what great things this same book of yours may serve?”
“Well, dear,” said the old woman, “do as you please; I should like to see the—what do you call it?—Bible, and to read it, as you seem to think it true.”
“Yes,” said I, “seem; that is the way to express yourself in this maze of doubt—I seem to think—these apples and pears seem to be—and