We debated the relative merits of the King James Version and the Twentieth Century Version for a long time one evening. I was holding out for the old order, in the feeling that the revised text deliberately sacrificed much of the majestic beauty and poetry of the style of the King James Version and that—despite an occasional archaism—the meaning was clear enough, and the additional accuracy did not justify putting aside the earlier beloved translation. Dr. Grenfell earnestly insisted that the most important thing is to make the meaning of the Scriptures plain to plain people—that the sense is the main consideration, and the truth is more important than a stately cadence of poetic prose. “I don’t want the language of three hundred years ago,” he asserted. “I want the language of today.” It is his custom to crowd the margins of his Bibles with annotations. He fills up one copy after another—one of these is in the possession of Mrs. John Markoe of Philadelphia, who prizes it greatly. By the name of George Borrow and the picture of Jeremiah Horrox on the fly-leaf of the copy he now uses, he has written “My inspirers.” There is much interleaving and all the inserted pages are crowded with trenchant observations and reflections on the meaning of life. Adhering to the inner side of the front corner is a poem: “Is thy cruse of comfort failing? Rise and share it with another. . . . . . . Scanty fare for one will often Make a royal feast for two.” There is a clipping from the _Outlook_, of an article by Lyman Abbott quoting Roosevelt to American troops, June 5, 1917, on the text from Micah, “What more doth the Lord require of thee than to do justly and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” Then there is a quotation from Shakespeare: “Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do, Nor light them for ourselves. For if our virtues Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike As if we had them not.” Pages of meditation are given to dreams—service—conversion—going to the war in 1915 with the Harvard Medical Unit—the place of religion in daily life—the will—the religion of duty. Another clipping—in large print—bears the words: “Not to love, not to serve, is not to live.” In the back of the book is pasted an extended description of the death of Edith Cavell. In one place he writes: “I don’t want a squashy credulity weakening my resolution and condoning incompetency—but just a faith of optimism which is that of youth and makes me do things regardless of the consequences.”