Occasionally these legends brought us to the awful brink of religious controversies and insoluble mysteries, but, like those gentle savages who honour the water-spirits by hanging garlands from tree to tree across the river, W. V. could always fling a bridge of flowers over our abysses.  "Our sense," she would declare, "is nothing to God's; and though big people have more sense than children, the sense of all the big people in the world put together would be no sense to His."  "We are only little babies to Him; we do not understand Him at all." Nothing seemed clearer to her than the reasonableness of one legend which taught that though God always answers our prayers, He does not always answer in the way we would like, but in some better way than we know.  "Yes," she observed, "He is just a dear old Father."  Anything about our Lord engrossed her imagination; and it was a frequent wish of hers that He would come again.  "Then,"--poor perplexed little mortal! whose difficulties one could not even guess at--"we should be quite sure of things.  Miss Catherine tells us from books: He would tell us from His memory.  People would not be so cruel to Him now.  Queen Victoria would not allow any one to crucify Him."