"Because, my daughter, it was translated, by St. Jerome, into the common Latin, which was the vulgar tongue in those days of half the known world—the very tongue in which the ladies talked of household matters and the fashions of the day, and prattled with their little ones, and scolded their maidservants even as they do now. He translated the Scriptures that every one might drink freely of divine knowledge, and though his version is somewhat deficient, Hebrew being not as thoroughly studied as in later days, yet has it been a well-spring of life to thousands of thousands of devout souls now passed to their eternal rest." "We are not to use our own judgment, but to be guided by the Church," said Amabel. "That is what I cannot understand—I mean how we are to help using our own judgment," I ventured to remark. "As long as we heard only one side it might be easy enough, but when one is in the hearing all sorts of opinions, how are we to help judging?" "We are to believe as the Church commands," answered Amabel. "But why? Is it not because we judge the Church to be the only safe guide? And is not that our own judgment as much as if we came to any other conclusion? It seems to me so." "And you are right, my child. You can no more use another man's judgment in such matters, than you can breathe with his lungs. A man asserts his ownership of an estate just as much by giving it away all in a lump, as if he bestowed it by ten shillings at a time." "I should like to read the Bible, if it is not wrong," said Amabel. "The bits we used to read with Father Brousseau in his great English Bible were so interesting. But I used to wonder why he never showed us those places where the Lord's disciples worshipped the Holy Virgin, and where he taught them about the worship and traditions of the Church." "Perhaps you may find out the reason when you read the book," said Mr. Wesley, with a smile, in which a little sarcasm mingled with the sweetness. "Well, my children, we have had a pleasant, and, I trust, a profitable hour together. Now will you tell me where the rector of this Church, Mr. Cheriton, lives? I must speak with him concerning the funeral of this poor woman and her babe." "Mr. Cheriton will save you that trouble," said the gentleman himself. "By your leave, fair ladies." As he spoke, he made a flying leap over the low stone wall which separated our garden from the church-yard, and lifted his hat politely. "Your servant, sir! I conclude I have the honor of addressing Mr. Wesley. I trust our poor friend up stairs has been comforted by your coming." "I left him sleeping, and hope he may awake refreshed. I usually find that grief is somewhat mitigated, when it can be brought to the point of expression. 'Tis the silent and dry sorrow that kills. I have to thank you for the service you rendered him in the hour of danger."