"Dear me," said Evelyn, "what an array of learning we have all at once!
Why, every Sunday-school child knows about the Psalms. David and Solomon
did nothing else but sing and dance, I believe."

"Irreverent, very, Evelyn," said my father, looking at her a little
severely, in spite of his own "Jeremiah" and "Isaiah" allusions. I had
never heard him check her so openly before, and enjoyed it thoroughly.
My smile of approbation provoked her, I suppose, for she pursued:

"I am so tired of having the Bible thrown at my head; you must excuse
me, papa. For my part, I find the New Testament all-sufficient. I weary
of the horrors of those Jews; worse than our Choctaw Indians, I verily
believe."

"So they were, so they were, my dear," said my father, complacently,
"but for some reasons we must always treat their memory with a certain
respect. They were God's people, remember, in the absence of a better,
and their history is written in this book, which we must all revere."

"A very great people, surely," said Mr. Bainrothe, "and destined to be
so again. Don't you think so, Miriam?"

"I don't know," I said; "I have never thought of such a possibility
before, I acknowledge, yet it is natural I should incline to my
mother's people, and I can say heartily, _I hope so_, Mr. Bainrothe."

"Then you want to see the Christian religion trampled under foot," said
Evelyn, spitefully, fixing her eyes on mine.

The blood rose hotly to my temples. "No, no, indeed! You know I do not,