"Nevertheless, I think you know the poem I mean!" said Mr. Wesley. "Shall I read it for you?"
"If you will be so good!" said Amabel.
He took a small Bible from his pocket, and to our surprise began to read the hundred and fourth psalm. I had read it, and repeated it often enough, but somehow his voice gave it a new interpretation. I could see the bounds which had been set, that the sea might not pass—the springs and brooks, feeding the rivers running among the hills, and nourishing the trees, wherein the birds build their nests, the rich meadows, and wide harvest fields.
"Is not that a picture gallery?" said Mr. Wesley, when he had finished. "A clever artist might paint a landscape from every verse of that psalm."
"Thank you very much," said Amabel, with that light shining in her placid eyes which showed that her feelings were strongly moved. "I never knew that there was so much in that Psalm before."
"Ah, my maiden, we go through the Bible as we do through the world—with our eyes shut!" said Mr. Wesley, rather sadly. "'Open THOU mine eyes, that I may behold the wondrous things of THY law,' should be the daily prayer of every one of us."
"We have never read the Bible, only here and there," said I, rather scared at my own boldness. "I have often wished that I might."
"And why, then, do you not read it, my daughter? Who is to hinder you?"
"We promised that we would not read any heretical books," said Amabel, with rather a severe glance at me.
"But, my child, you do not call the Word of God a heretical book, do you?"