"I would take the journey," he said, with decision. "If I am wrong I want to know it." Bethany slipped a little Testament out of one of the pigeon-holes, and handed it to him, opened at the place where the answer to Thomas was heavily underscored:
"Jesus saith unto him, I am the way and the truth and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by me."
"Follow that path," she said, simply. "The door has never been opened to you, because you have never knocked. You have no personal knowledge of Christ, because you have never sought for it. He has never revealed himself to you, because you have never asked him to do so."
He turned to her impatiently.
"Could you honestly pray to Confucius?" he asked; "or Isaiah, or Elijah, or John the Baptist? This Jewish teacher is no more to me than any other man who has taught and died. How can I pray to him, then?"
Bethany fingered the leaves of her little Testament, her heart fluttering nervously.
"I wish you would take this and read it," she said. "It would answer you far better than I can."
"I have read it," he replied, "a number of years ago. I could see nothing in it."
"O, but you read it simply as a critic," she answered. "See!" she cried eagerly, turning the leaves to find another place she had marked. "Paul wrote this about the children of Israel: 'Their minds were blinded: for until this day remaineth the same veil' (the one told about in Exodus, you know) 'untaken away, in the reading of the Old Testament; which veil is done away in Christ. But even unto this day, when Moses is read, the veil is upon their heart. Nevertheless, when it shall turn to the Lord, the veil shall be taken away.'"