turned into wine. The water had not turned into wine. But for all that he would live in his soul as if the water had turned into wine. For truth of fact, it had not. But for his soul, it had.

“Whether it turned into wine or whether it didn't,” he said, “it doesn't bother me. I take it for what it is.”

“And what is it?” she asked, quickly, hopefully.

“It's the Bible,” he said.

That answer enraged her, and she despised him. She did not actively question the Bible herself. But he drove her to contempt.

And yet he did not care about the Bible, the written letter. Although he could not satisfy her, yet she knew of herself that he had something