“The Bible, child! now that must be your own fancy. I never found it there, and I think I must have read it more than you have.”
“Have you looked for it?” inquired Sarah, timidly, for she feared to be thought presumptuous.
“Looked for it—I don’t know what you mean. I read it every Saturday, the parts they tell us to read; and I do not find much comfort in them, for they seem to tell me God is too far off to care for such as us.”
“Oh, do not, do not say so,” replied Sarah, with unaffected earnestness. “Every word of that blessed book brings our God near us as a tender and loving father—tells us we are His children. He loves us, cares for us, bears all our sorrow, feels for us more deeply than any earthly friend. I am not very old, but I have learned this from His holy book; and so, I am sure, will you. Forgive me,” she added, meekly, taking the old woman’s withered hand, “I am too young perhaps to speak so to one old and experienced as you are.”
“Forgive you—you are a sweet angel!” hastily replied Esther, suddenly rising and pressing Sarah in her arms. “Too good, too good to come to such a house as this. God forbid you should have such trials as to make you doubt what you now so steadfastly believe; the more you talk the more I wish you had not come.”
“But why do you regret it? What is it I must expect? Pray tell me; be my friend, I have none on earth near me to love me now.”
“I wish I could be a friend to you, poor child, but I am of little service now, and you can better tutor me than I can you. It is a hard thing to say to a child of her own father, but you are too good for such as he.”
“Oh no, no; pray do not say so. Tell me, only tell me I may love my father!” entreated Sarah.
“You cannot, child; you have been used to kindness and love, you will find harshness and anger; you have only associated with religion and virtue, you have come to misery and vice. As the niece of the worthy widow Perez you have been respected, and always found employment; as the daughter of Isaac Levison you will be shunned, and may be left to starve. It is hard enough to find employment for children of respectable parents amongst us poor Jews; and so how can we expect it for others? Don’t cry, dear; it is sad enough, but it is only too true; and so I grieve you have given up even your character to come here.”
“But what can I do—what can I do?” repeated Sarah, lifting up her streaming eyes with an expression which almost brought tears to those of Esther. “Could I desert my own father, and I heard he needed me? Is he not in poverty and distress? And is his own child to forsake him because others do?”