“It seems to me,” he said on one occasion, “that the Jews will not seek enlightenment simply because, on account of their foolish prejudice, they _don’t want_ Christianity to be true;” and Celia was obliged to agree with him on that point. “There are none so blind as those who wilfully shut their eyes,” remarked Enid, who happened to be present. “But do you know what I was thinking, Ralph? That Celia’s friends will consider it rather mean of us to have won her over to our religion. I can just imagine, for instance, what Mrs. Friedberg will say.” “Yes, I am afraid that Miss Franks will have some unpleasantness to face,” returned her brother, regretfully. “But that cannot be helped. If we owed a duty to her friends, we owe a still higher duty to our Master. I know that in certain quarters it is regarded as ‘bad taste’ to interfere with the religion in which a person happens to be born; but I could not possibly have withheld from our friend the instruction she so eagerly sought.” “Please do not dream of reproaching yourself,” said Celia, earnestly, turning towards the vicar with a bright smile. “I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for your kindness, and I shall thank God every day of my life for this visit to Woodruffe. As for what my friends will say--that does not trouble me in the least. My greatest friend, Lady Marjorie Stonor, is herself a Christian, so that she cannot possibly blame me for my change of faith.” “But your brother and Mr. Salmon?” put in Enid, with hesitation. “Don’t you think they will receive the news with anger?” “Herbert will not; he is too sensible,” replied the girl, readily. “But about David I cannot say. However, I trust he will take it in the right light. I really cannot see that my religion need make any difference to him.” But Enid was not so sanguine; she knew that David Salmon possessed a lofty contempt for everything pertaining to matters spiritual. “I hope he will be nice about it,” she said doubtfully. “But--I can’t help wishing that you were going to marry a Christian, Celia dear.” And in his heart her brother re-echoed her wish. CHAPTER VII WHITE HEATHER “I believe I must be losing my youth, Janet,” Lady Marjorie said half seriously. “This is the third grey hair I have found this week.” She took up a silver-mounted hand-glass from the dressing-table and surveyed herself critically. The suspicion of a wrinkle lined her forehead; but her mouth was still as mobile, and her eyes as bright as ever they had been. The old servant carefully removed the offending hair, and went on arranging her mistress’s tresses. She had nursed Lady Marjorie as a baby, as well as Lady Marjorie’s boy, and knew the Bexley family almost as well as her own. “Losing your youth indeed!” she exclaimed, inserting the last hairpin in its place. “Why, you are not nearly thirty yet, my lady, and as young-looking as can be.”