"Not in your Book, Mrs. Celia. If I had my own Book, I could. My dear, 'tis choke-full of marks--bits of worsted mostly. I often have it lying open by me when I'm a-darning stockings or some such work, and if I finds a particular nice bit, why, down there goes a bit of worsted into him. Eh! but I have some fine bits marked with them worsted! My dears, if you haven't read the Book you don't know what nice reading there is." "I think I will read it," said Lucy, gaping. "You can't without you have glasses, my dear," said Cicely, quietly, finishing off the ruffle. "Glasses! Why Cicely!" exclaimed Lucy. "Yes, Miss Lucy, glasses," was Cicely's persistent answer. "Not such like as I works with, my dear: them is earthly glasses. But there is heavenly glasses, and you can't rend the Book without, and you must ask Him for them. He is sure to give them if you ask Him. I think I could find that bit, Mrs. Celia, if you will give me bold." Celia passed the Bible to the old woman, and she, opening at the first chapter of St. Matthew, slowly traced the lines until she reached the passage which she wanted. "Now, look here, Mrs. Celia. This is him." Celia took the book, and read where Cicely pointed. "'If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask Him?'"[4] "Stop a bit!" said old Cicely; "that ben't just the one I meant. Let's look a bit on." After a little more searching she discovered her text. "Read that, please, Mrs. Celia," she said. Celia read in a low tone: "'If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?'"[5] Lucy seemed to have dropped asleep. "Cicely," asked Celia, "how shall we know if we have the Holy Spirit?" "Feel Him, my dear,--feel Him!" said Cicely, with a light in her eyes. "I reckon you don't want telling whether you are happy or not, do you?" "No, indeed," replied Celia, smiling. "No more you'll want to be told whether you have Him," resumed old Cicely, triumphantly. "But how did you get Him given?" pursued Celia. "Why, my dear, I wanted Him, and I asked for Him, and I got Him. 'Tis just so simple as that. I never knew aught about it till I read the Book. I'm only a very simple, ignorant, old woman, my dear. Maybe the reason why I don't know no more is just that I am such a dunce. He can't learn me no more, because I haven't no wits to be learned. You've got plenty of wit, Mrs. Celia--you try! Why, just think the lots of things you know more than me! You can write, and make figures, and play pretty music, and such like, and I know nought but sewing, and dressing meat and drink, and reading the Book. Mayhap the Lord gives me fine things to think about, just because I know so little of other things--a sort of making up like, you see. But you try it, Mrs. Celia, my dear!"