Jacques would call her to him and question her, and that was really too
frightful for anything. Perhaps he had been reading aloud, as he was
fond of doing in the evenings, some denunciatory passage from the
psalms or the prophets. "Mary," he would say, turning to her, as she
sat with her knitting in the corner, "what do you think of that
passage?"

"I think him horreebl'," Marie would answer. "Why do you read of such
things, Jacques! Why you not have the good Bible, as we have him in
France, why?"

"There is but one Bible, Mary, but one in the world; and it is all good
and beautiful, only our sinful eyes cannot always see the glory of it."

"Ah, but no!" Marie would persist, shaking her head gravely. "Mere
Jeanne's Bible was all ozer, so I tell you. Not black and horreebl',
no! but red, all red, wiz gold on him, and in his side pictures, all
bright and preetty, and good words, good ones, what make the good feel
in my side. Yes, that is the Bible I have liked."

"Mary, I tell you it was no Bible, unless it was this very one. They
bind it in any colour they like, don't you see, child? It isn't the
cover that makes the book. I fear you weren't brought up a Christian,
Mary. It is a terrible thing to think of, my poor little wife. You
must let me teach you; you must talk with Elder Beach on Sunday
afternoons. Assuredly he will help you, if I am found unworthy."

But Marie would have none of this. She was a Christian, she maintained
as stoutly as her great fear of her husband would permit. She had been
baptized, and taught all that one should be taught. But it was all