"'Tis a fine poem, is it not?" said he. "Have you read the hymn with which the book concludes?"
"We have not got as far as that!" said Amabel.
Mr. Wesley turned over the leaves, and began that sublime hymn, beginning—
"These as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God."
I shall never dissociate these lines with the melodious voice and expressive manner of Mr. Wesley. When he had finished, we sat silent for a few minutes.
"That is beautiful!" said Amabel at last, with a kind of sigh.
"It is indeed!" answered Mr. Wesley. "I hardly know of more than one finer."
"And what is that, Sir?" I ventured to ask.
"One that I dare say you have often read without thinking of it in that way!" answered Mr. Wesley, smiling.
"We have read very few books," remarked Amabel. "We were brought up in a French convent, and never saw any but 'Meditations' and 'Lives of the Saints,' till we came to live here."