‘I wish it did not,’ said the old woman; ’but it shan’t long; I’ll burn it, or fling it into the river—­the voices at night tell me to do so.’

‘Tell the voices,’ said I, ’that they talk nonsense; the book, if it exists, is a good book, it contains a deep moral; have you read it all?’

’All the funny parts, dear; all about taking things, and the manner it was done; as for the rest, I could not exactly make it out.’

’Then the book is not to blame; I repeat that the book is a good book, and contains deep morality, always supposing that there is such a thing as morality, which is the same thing as supposing that there is anything at all.’

’Anything at all!  Why ain’t we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my—­’

’Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say—­I don’t know; all is a mystery, a deep question.  It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears; and, provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a pear.’

‘Don’t talk so, dear.’

’I won’t; we will suppose that we all exist—­world, ourselves, apples, and pears:  so you wish to get rid of the book?’

‘Yes, dear, I wish you would take it.’

’I have read it, and have no farther use for it; I do not need books:  in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit myself, far less books.’

‘Then I will fling it into the river.’

’Don’t do that; here, give it me.  Now what shall I do with it? you were so fond of it.’

‘I am so no longer.’

‘But how will you pass your time; what will you read?’

’I wish I had never learned to read, or, if I had, that I had only read the books I saw at school:  the primer or the other.’

‘What was the other?’

‘I think they called it the Bible:  all about God, and Job, and Jesus.’

‘Ah, I know it.’

‘You have read it; is it a nice book—­all true?’

’True, true—­I don’t know what to say; but if the world be true, and not all a lie, a fiction, I don’t see why the Bible, as they call it, should not be true.  By the bye, what do you call Bible in your tongue, or, indeed, book of any kind? as Bible merely means a book.’

‘What do I call the Bible in my language, dear?’

‘Yes, the language of those who bring you things.’

’The language of those who did, dear; they bring them now no longer. 
They call me fool, as you did, dear, just now; they call kissing the
Bible, which means taking a false oath, smacking calf-skin.’

‘That’s metaphor,’ said I; ’English, but metaphorical; what an odd language!  So you would like to have a Bible,—­shall I buy you one?’

‘I am poor, dear—­no money since I left off the other trade.’

‘Well, then, I’ll buy you one.’

’No, dear, no; you are poor, and may soon want the money; but if you can take me one conveniently on the sly, you know—­I think you may, for, as it is a good book, I suppose there can be no harm in taking it.’