“What beautiful poetry!” exclaimed the girl, who had listened with interest. “Who is the author of it?”
“Don’t you know?” answered Enid, with surprise. “It was written by one of your own people: it is an extract from the Book of Psalms.”
“Psalm one hundred and seven,” put in Irene, who liked to be exact.
“I am dreadfully ignorant of the Bible,” said Celia, half ashamed to make such a confession. “I know my Shakespeare twice as well. The Bible is not much read amongst Jewish people, except in Hebrew, which most of them can barely translate.”
“How strange!” Enid rejoined. “Why, if I were a Jewess, I should claim it as my special heritage. Do you know, I have sometimes wished I were a Jewess. It must be so inspiring to think that you belong to the same race as the holy men of old—the patriarchs, the prophets, and the apostles.”
Celia looked doubtful. “I don’t think you would like to give up your Christianity for Judaism,” she said.
“No, of course not. But if I were a Jewess, I should be a Christian too. I can scarcely conceive of a religion that excludes Christ.”
“That is because you have been brought up to it,” Celia replied. “I wish I possessed your faith.” She paused to pluck a little field-flower, and continued a trifle nervously. “If I could be convinced of Christ’s Divinity, I think I should become a Christian. I feel the need of a pure spiritual faith; and Judaism does not satisfy me. I’ve been thinking about it a good deal lately.”
“Have you really?”
Enid’s face lit up with eagerness. She had often wished that her friend followed the same creed as herself; but being aware how prejudiced most Jewish people were against Christianity when applied to themselves, had hitherto refrained from touching on the subject.