X.

The next day, and the next after that, were passed by the Cardinal in

gratifying a certain eagerness shown by his young foundling, Manuel, to

see the churches and great public buildings of Paris. The boy had a

quiet, straightforward way of expressing his wishes and opinions, and a

certain marked individuality in his manner--in fact, so simple and

straight were his words, and so much to the point, that they sometimes

caused confusion to his hearers. Once or twice he gave offence, as for

example, on visiting a great church where there were numerous jewelled

relics and priceless treasures of old lace and embroidery, when he said

suddenly:

"There is a woman just outside the door, very ill and poor, with two

little starving children;--would it not be well to sell some of the

jewels here and give her the money?"

The custodian looked amazed, and the attendant priest who was escorting

Cardinal Bonpre through the building, frowned.

"The treasures of the Church are not to be sold," he said curtly. "The

beggar outside is no doubt a trained hypocrite."

"Christ would not say so," answered Manuel softly,--"He would not, even

if He knew her to be a hypocrite, retain anything of value for Himself,

if by giving it to her, He could ease her pain and poverty. I cannot

understand why the Church should keep jewels."

"That is because you are ignorant," said the priest roughly.

Manuel raised his grave blue eyes and fixed them steadily upon him.

"That may be," he said, "Yet I think it is nowhere written in the

Gospel that Christ cared for the world's wealth or the world's

possessions. When they are offered to Him did he not say, 'Get thee

behind me, Satan'! The only gem he prized was the 'pearl of great

price,'--the pure and perfect human soul."

"The Church is the manufactory of those pearls," said the priest, with

something between a grin and a sneer.

"Then the Church needs no other jewels" returned Manuel quietly, with a

little gesture of his hand, "These glittering baubles you show, are out

of place."

The priest glanced him over with angry contempt. Then he said to the

Cardinal,

"Your Eminence will have trouble with that boy," he said. "His opinions

are heretic."

The Cardinal smiled a little.

"You think so? Nay, there is something of truth in what he says,

notwithstanding his simplicity of utterance, which is not perhaps in

accordance with convention. I confess that I share his opinions

somewhat. Certainly I esteem myself happy that in my far-off diocese

there are none of the world's precious things, but only the unprized

prayers of the faithful."

The priest said nothing in reply,--but he was conscious of discomfort

and uneasiness, and hurried through the rest of his duties with an

ill-grace, annoyed, though he knew not why, by the very presence of

Manuel. The boy, however, paid no heed to his angry glances, and noted

everything in his own quiet meditative way,--a way which was a

singularly winning one, graced as it was by an almost scholarly

thoughtfulness united to the charm of youth. Once, before a magnificent

priest's garment of lace, he paused, and touched the substance lightly.

"See," he said softly, looking wistfully up in the Cardinal's face,

"See all the leaves and rosebuds worked in, this by the needle,--and

think how many human eyes have strained at it, and grown dull and blind

over it! If one could only believe that the poor eyes were comforted at

all in the following of the difficult thread!--but no,--the sunshine

must have lessened and the days grown darker and darker, till death

came and gently shut up the lids of the tired orbs of earthy vision,

and opened those of the soul to Light indeed! This work speaks with a

thousand tongues! I can hear them!

Torture,--poverty,--pain,--pitilessness,--long hours,--scant

reward,--tired fingers,--weary hearts!--and a priest of Christ wears

this to perform Christ's service! Clad in a garment of human suffering,

to preach mercy! Is it not strange?"

"You think too deeply, my child," said the Cardinal, moved by the

tender pity in Manual's voice, "Nothing is accomplished without pain in

this world,--our dear Lord Himself suffered pain."

"True," said Manuel, "But His pain was endured that there might be less

of it for others! He asked His children in this world to love one

another for His sake--not to grind each other down! Not to make

unnecessary hardships for each other! But it seems as if He had asked

in vain!"

He was silent after this, and refrained from remark even when, during

their visit to Notre Dame, the treasury was unlocked for the Cardinal's

inspection, and the relics formerly contained in the now disused

"Sainte Chapelle," were shown,--including the fragments of the "crown

of thorns," and a nail from the "true cross." The Cardinal was silent

too. He had no remark to offer on these obvious "imaginations" of the

priesthood. Then they went up together to the platform on the summit of

the Cathedral, and looked at the great bell known as the "Bourdon de

Notre Dame";--and here they found a little wizened old man sitting

carelessly on the edge of a balustrade, in a seemingly very dangerous

position, who nodded and smiled familiarly as they appeared. He acted

as cicerone of the summit of the North Tower, and was soon at their

side explaining volubly all that was of interest.

"Tired,--oh yes, one gets tired!" he admitted, in response to a query

from the Cardinal as to whether he did not find his duties fatiguing at

his age, "But after all, I like the griffins and dragons and devils'

faces up here, better than the griffins and dragons and devils down

there,--below on the Boulevards! I call this Heaven, and down there in

the streets, Hell. Yes, truly! It is wholesome up here,--the sky seems

very near, and the sculptured beasts do no harm. But down in the

streets one feels and smells the dirt and danger directly. I sit here

all by myself for hours thinking, when no one comes to visit the

tower,--for sometimes a whole day passes and no one wishes to ascend.

And there is a moral in that, Monseigneur, if one has eyes to see

it;--days pass, years, in the world,--and no one wishes to ascend!--to

Heaven, I mean!--to go down to Hell is delightful, and everyone is

ready for it! It is at night that the platform here is most

beautiful,--oh yes, at night it is very fine, Monseigneur!--but it is

only madmen and dreamers who call me up in the night hours, yet when

they do I never refuse to go with them, for look you, I am a light

sleeper and have no wife to bid me keep my bed. Yes,--if the

authorities knew that I took anybody up to the tower at night they

would probably dismiss me," and he chuckled like an old schoolboy with

a sense of his own innate mischief and disobedience, "But you see they

do not know! And I learn a great deal from the strange persons who come

at night,--much more than from the strange persons who come by day.

Now, the last so strange person that came here by night--you would not

perhaps believe it, Monseigneur, but it was a priest! Yes," and the old

fellow laughed, "a priest who had suddenly found out that the Church

was not following its Master! Yes, yes! . . . just fancy killing

himself for that!"

"Killing himself!" cried the Cardinal, "What do you mean?"

"You would like to hear the story?--ah, take care, mon ange!" he cried,

as he perceived Manuel standing lightly near the brink of the platform,

and stretching out his arms towards the city, "Thou art not a bird to

fly from that edge in the air! What dost thou see?"

"Paris!" replied the boy in strangely sorrowful accents, turning his

young, wistful face towards the Cardinal, his hair blown back in the

light wind, "All Paris!"

"Ah!--'tis a fine sight, all Paris!" said the old guide--"one of the

finest in the world, to judge by the outside of it. But the inside is a

very different matter; and if Paris is not a doomed city, then there is

no God, and I know nothing of the Bible. It has got all the old sins in

a new shape, and revels in them. And of the story of the priest, if you

would hear it;--ah!--that is well!" he said, as Manuel left the giddy

verge of the platform where he had been standing, and drew near. "It is

safer to be away from that edge, my child! And for the poor priest, it

happened in this way,--it was a fair night, and the moon was high--I

was dozing off in a chair in my room below, when the bell rang quickly,

yet softly. I got up with pleasure, for I said to myself, 'here is an

artist or a poet,--one of those persons who are unlike anyone

else'--just as I am myself unlike anyone else--'and so we two shall

have a pleasant evening.' But when I opened the door there was no one

but a priest, and poor-looking even at that; and he was young and pale,

and very uneasy in his manner, and he said to me, 'Jean Lapui'--(that

is my name)--'let me pass up to the platform.' 'Willingly,' said I, 'if

I may go with you.' 'Nay, I would rather be alone,' he answered. 'That

may not be,' I told him, 'I am as pleased to see the moonbeams shining

on the beasts and devils as any man,--and I shall do you no harm by my

company.' Well, he agreed to have me then, and up we went the three

hundred and seventy-eight steps,--(it is a long way, Monseigneur;--)and

he mounted quickly, I slowly,--but always keeping my eye upon him. At

last we reached this platform, and the moonlight was beautiful, and

clear as day. Then my little priest sat down and began to laugh. 'Ha,

my Lapui!' he said, 'Is it not droll that this should be all a lie! All

this fine building, and all the other fine buildings of the kind in

Paris! Strange, my Lapui, is it not, that this Cathedral should be

raised to the worship of a God whom no one obeys, or even thinks of

obeying! All show, my good Lapui! All to feed priests like me, and keep

them going--but God has nothing to do with it--nothing at all, I swear

to you!'--'You may be right, mon reverend,' I said, (for I saw he was

not in a mood to be argued with)--"Yet truly the Cathedral has not

always been a place of holiness. In seventeen ninety-three there was

not much of our Lord or the blessed Saints in it.' 'No, you are right,

Lapui!' he cried, 'Down came the statue of the Virgin, and up went the

statue of Liberty! There was the crimson flare of the Torch of

Truth!--and the effigies of the ape Voltaire and the sensualist

Rousseau, took the places of St. Peter and St. Paul! Ha!--And they

worshipped the goddess of Reason--Reason, impersonated by Maillard the

ballet-dancer! True to the life, my Lapui!--that kind of worship has

lasted in Paris until now!--it goes on still--Reason,--man's idea of

Reason,--impersonated by a ballet dancer! Yes,--the shops are full of

that goddess and her portraits, Jean Lapui! And the jewellers can

hardly turn out sufficient baubles to adorn her shrine!' He laughed

again, and I took hold of him by the arm. 'See here, petit pere,' I

said, 'I fancy all is not well with you.' 'You are right,' he answered,

'all is very ill!' 'Then will you not go home and to bed?' I asked him.

'Presently--presently;' he said, 'if I may tell you something first!'

'Do so by all means, reverend pere,' said I, and I sat down near him.

'It is just this, Lapui,' and he drew out a crucifix from his breast

and looked at it very earnestly, 'I am a priest, as you see; and this

symbol represents my faith. My mother told me that to be a priest and

to serve God was the highest happiness that could befall a man. I

believed it,--and when I look at the stars up there crowding around us

in such vast circles,--when I look at all this moonlight and the

majesty of creation around me, I believe it still! Up here, it seems

there MAY be a God; down there,' and he pointed towards the streets, 'I

know there is a devil! But I have discovered that it is no use telling

the people about God, because they do not believe in Him. They think I

am telling them a lie because it is my metier to tell lies. And also

because they think I have neither the sense nor the ability to do

anything else. They know they are telling lies themselves all day and

every day. Some of them pretend to believe, because they think it best

to be on the safe side even by feigning,--and they are the worst

hypocrites. It drives me mad, Lapui, to perform Mass for liars! If it

were only unbelievers! but liars!--liars! Liars who lie on their

death-beds, telling me with mock sighs of penitence that they believe

in God when they do not! I had a dream last night--you shall tell me if

I was mistaken in it,--it was a dream of this very tower of Notre Dame.

I was up here as I am now--and the moonlight was around me as it is

now--and I thought that just behind the wing of that third angel's head

carved yonder--do you see?' and he got up and made me get up too, and

turned me round with his hand on my shoulder--'a white dove had made

its resting-place. Is there a white dove there, Lapui? If there is I

shall be a happy man and all my griefs will be at an end! Will you go

and look--and tell me if there is a white dove nestling there? Then I

will say good-night to you and go home.' God forgive me!--I thought to

humor him in his fancy, and so I left him to walk those five

steps--only five at the utmost--and see if perhaps among the many doves

that fly about the towers, it might not be that a white one, as he

said, should have chosen to settle in the place he pointed out to me,

'for,' thought I, 'he will be quiet then and satisfied.' And like a

blind fool I went--and when I came back the platform was empty!--Ah,

Monseigneur!--he had said good-night indeed, and gone home!"

"You mean that he flung himself from this parapet?" said Bonpre, in a

low, horrified tone.

"That was the way of it, Monseigneur," said Lapui

commiseratingly,--"His body was found next day crushed to bits on the

pavement below; but somehow no one troubled much about it, or thought

he had thrown himself from the tower of Notre Dame. It was said that he

had been murdered and thrown out of a window, but nobody knew how or

when. Of course I could have spoken, but then I should have got into

trouble. And I avoid trouble whenever I can. A very strange thing it is

that no one has ever been suspected of leaping from Notre Dame into the

next world since Victor Hugo's great story was written. 'It is against

the rules,' say the authorities, 'to mount the towers at night.' True,

but rules are not always kept. Victor Hugo's 'Quasimodo,' who never

lived, is the only person the wiseacres associate with such a deed. And

I,--I could tell many a strange story; only it is better to be silent!

Life is hard living,--and when a priest of the Church feels there is no

God in this world, why what is there left for him except to try and

find out if there is in the next?"

"Suicide is not the way to find Heaven," said the Cardinal gravely.

"Maybe not,--maybe not," and the old custodian turned to lead the way

down the steps of the tower, "But when the brain is gone all through

grief at losing God, it may chance that God sees the conditions of

things, and has mercy. Events happen in this world of such a kind as to

make anyone who is not a saint, doubt the sense as well as the goodness

of the Creator,--of course that is a wicked thing to say, for we make

our own evils, no doubt--"

"That is very certain," said the Cardinal, "The unhappy man you have

told me of should have trusted God to the end, whether those whom he

preached to, believed his message or not. Their conduct was not his

business,--his task was to declare, and not to judge."

"Now that is very well put!" and the old man paused on the stairway and

looked round approvingly. "Of course that is said as only a wise man

could say it, for after all, Christ Himself did not judge any one in

any case. He came to save us all, not to punish us."

"Then why does not everyone remember that, and try to save one another

rather than to condemn?" asked Manuel suddenly.

They had reached the bottom of the tower stairway, and old Jean Lapui,

shading his eyes from the glare of the daylight with one wrinkled hand,

looked at the boy with a smile of compassionate interest.

"Why does not everyone remember? Why does not everyone do as He did?

Ah, that is a question! You are young, and you will find out many

answers to it before you are much older. One fact is sure,--that if

everybody did remember Him and lived exactly as He wished, we should

have a new Heaven and a new Earth; and I will tell you something else,"

and the old fellow looked sly and mischievous, "No offence meant--no

offence!--but there would be no churches and no priests! Believe me, I

speak the truth! But this would be a great happiness; and is not to be

our portion yet! Good-day, Monseigneur!--A thousand pardons for my

wicked speech! Good-day!"

"Good-day!" responded the Cardinal gently, "Be careful of your night

visitors, my friend! Do not for the future leave them alone to plunge

into the Infinite without a warning!"

The old man smiled deprecatingly.

"Truly, Monseigneur, I am generally careful. I do not know when I have

spoken so freely to anyone as I have to you; for I am generally in a

bad humour with all Church dignitaries,--and of course I know you for a

Cardinal by your dress, while you might truly be a saint from your

manner;--so I should have held my tongue about the flight into the air

of the little priest. But you will say nothing, for you are discreet;

and even if you did, and I were asked about it, I should know nothing.

Oh, yes, I can tell lies as fast as anybody else!--Yes, truly! I do not

suppose anyone, not even an Archbishop himself, could surpass me in

lying!"

"And are you not ashamed to lie?" asked Bonpre, with an intense

vibration of pain in his voice as he put the question.

"Heaven bless you, no, Monseigneur!" replied Lapui cheerfully, "For is

not the whole world kept going by lies? Dear me, if we all told the

truth there would be an end of everything! I am a philosopher in my

way, Monseigneur,--and I assure you that a real serious truth told in

Paris without any gloss upon it, would be like an earthquake in the

city,--great houses would come down and numbers of people would be

killed by it! Good-day, Monseigneur!--Good-day."

And still smiling and chuckling, the custodian of the North tower

retired into his den there to await fresh visitors. The Cardinal walked

slowly to the corner of the street where his carriage awaited him,--his

head bent and his eyes downcast; Manuel stepped lightly along beside

him, glancing at his pale face from time to time with a grave and

tender compassion. When they were seated in the vehicle and driving

homewards the boy spoke gently--

"You grieve too much for others, dear friend! You are now distressed

because you have heard the story of one unhappy man who sought to find

God by self-destruction, and you are pained also lest another man

should lose God altogether by the deliberate telling of lies. All such

mistakes and follies of the world weigh heavily on your heart, but they

should not do so,--for did not Christ suffer all this for you when He

was crucified?"

The Cardinal sighed deeply.

"Yes, my child, but He told us plainly WHY He suffered. It was that we

might learn to follow Him, and that there should be less suffering for

the future. And surely we have not obeyed Him, or there could not be so

much pain and difficulty in the world as there is now."

"If He come again, you think He would be grieved and disappointed in

His followers?" queried Manuel softly.

"If He came again, I fear He would not find much of His teaching in any

of the creeds founded on His name! If He came again, then indeed might

the churches tremble, totter and fall!"

"If He came again," pursued Manuel, still in the same soft, even voice,

"how do you think He would come?"

"'Watch ye therefore for ye know not when He cometh,'" murmured the

Cardinal,--"My dear child, I think if He came again it would be

perhaps in the disguise of one who is poor and friendless 'despised and

rejected of men,' as when He first glorified the earth by His presence;

and I fear that in such plight He would find Himself, as before,

unwelcome."

Manuel made no reply just then, as they had arrived at home. The

servant who admitted them told them that Donna Sovrani had a visitor in

her studio,--so that the Cardinal and his young attendant went straight

to their own apartments.

"Read to me, Manuel," then said Bonpre, seating himself near the

window, and looking out dreamily on the rich foliage of the woods and

grassy slopes that stretched before him, "Find something in the Gospels

that will fit what we have seen to-day. I am tired of all these temples

and churches!--these gorgeous tombs and reliquaries; they represent

penances and thank-offerings no doubt, but to me they seem useless. A

church should not be a shrine for worldly stuff, unless indeed such

things are used again for the relief of poverty and suffering; but they

are not used; they are simply kept under lock and key and allowed to

accumulate,--while human creatures dwelling perhaps quite close to

these shrines, are allowed to die of starvation. Did you think this

when you spoke to the priest who was offended with you to-day?"

"Yes, I thought it," replied Manuel gently, "But then he said I was a

heretic. When one loves God better than the Church is one called a

heretic?"

Cardinal Bonpre looked earnestly at the boy's inspired face,--the face

of a dreaming angel in its deep earnestness.

"If so, then I am heretic," he answered slowly, "I love the Creator as

made manifest to me in His works,--I love Him in every flower which I

am privileged to look upon,--I find Him in every art and science,--I

worship Him in a temple not made with hands,--His own majestic

Universe! Above all churches,--above all formulated creeds and systems

I love Him! And as declared in the divine humanity of Christ I believe

in, and adore Him! If this makes me unworthy to be His priest and

servant then I confess my unworthiness!"

He had spoken these words more to himself than Manuel, and in his

fervour had closed his eyes and clasped his hands,--and he almost

fancied that a soft touch, light as a falling rose-leaf, had for a

second rested on his brow. He looked up quickly, wondering whether it

was Manuel who had so touched him,--the boy was certainly near

him,--but was already seated with the Testament open ready to read as

requested. The Cardinal raised himself in his chair,--a sense of

lightness, and freedom, and ease, possessed him,--the hopeless and

tired feeling which had a few minutes since weighed him down with an

undefinable languor was gone,--and his voice had gained new strength

and energy when he once more spoke.

"You have found words of our Lord which will express what we have seen

to-day?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Manuel, and he read in a clear vibrating tone, "Woe unto

you scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites; because ye build the tombs of

the prophets and garnish the sepulchres of the righteous." Here he

paused and said, while the Cardinal gazed at him wonderingly, "Is not

that true of Paris? There is their great Pantheon where most of their

prophets lie,--their poets and their teachers whom they wronged and

slandered in their lifetime--"

"My child," interrupted Bonpre gently, "Poets and so-called teachers

are not always good men. One named Voltaire, who scoffed at God, and

enunciated the doctrine of materialism in France, is buried there."

"Nevertheless he also was a prophet," persisted Manuel, in his quiet,

half-childlike, half-scholarly way, "A prophet of evil. He was the

incarnation of the future spirit of Paris. He lived as a warning of

what was to come,--a warning of the wolves that were ready to descend

upon the Master's fold. But Paris was then perhaps in the care of those

'hirelings' who are mentioned here as caring not for the sheep."

He turned a few pages and continued reading.

"'Well hath Esais prophesied of you, hypocrites, as it is written, This

people honoureth me with their lips but their heart is far from me.

Howbeit in vain do they worship me, TEACHING FOR DOCTRINE THE

COMMANDMENTS OF MAN.'"

He emphasised the last few words and looked up at the Cardinal, then he

went on.

"'Whosoever will come after me let him deny himself and take up his

cross and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it,

but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake the same shall save it.'"

"Yes," said Cardinal Bonpre fervently, "It is all there!--'Whosoever

will come after me let him deny himself,' LET HIM DENY HIMSELF! That is

the secret of it. Self-denial! And this age is one of self-indulgence.

We are on the wrong road, all of us, both Church and laity,--and if the

Master should come He will not find us watching, but sleeping."

He broke off, as at that moment a knock came at the door and a servant

entered the room bringing him a letter. It was from the Abbe Vergniaud,

and ran as follows:--

"TRES CHER MONSIGNEUR! I preach the day after tomorrow at Notre Dame de

Lorette, and if you wish to do a favour to a dying man you will come

and hear me. I am moved to say things I have never said before, and it

is possible I may astonish and perchance scandalise Paris. What

inspires me I do not know,--perhaps your well-deserved reproach of the

other day--perhaps the beautiful smile of the angel that dwells in

Donna Sovrani's eyes,--perhaps the chance meeting with your Rouen

foundling on the stairs as I was flying away from your just wrath. He

had been gathering roses in the garden, and gave me one with a grace in

the giving which made the flower valuable. It still lives and blooms in

a glass on my writing-table at which I have been jotting down the notes

of what I mean to say. WHAT I MEAN TO SAY! There is more in those words

than there seems, if you could but guess all! I shall trust to the day

itself for the necessary eloquence. The congregation that assembles at

the Lorette is a curious and a mixed one. 'Artistes' of the stage and

the cafe chantant are among the worshippers;--dames of rank and fashion

who worship the male 'artistes,' and the golden youth of Paris who

adore the very points of the shoes of the female ones,--are generally

there also. It is altogether what 'perfide Albion,' or Dame Grundee

would call a 'fast' audience. And the fact that I have arranged to

preach there will draw a still greater mixture and 'faster' quality, as

I am, alas!--a fashion in preachers. I pray you to come, or I shall

think you have not forgiven me!

"VERGNIAUD."

Cardinal Bonpre folded the letter and put it aside with a curious

feeling of compassion for the writer.

"Yes, I will go," he thought, "I have never heard him preach, though I

know by report that he is popular. I was told once that he seems to be

possessed by a very demon of mockery, and that it is this spirit which

makes his attraction for the people; but I hope it is something more

than that--I hope--" Here interrupting his meditations he turned to

Manuel.

"So you gave the Abbe Vergniaud a rose the other day, my child?"

"Yes," replied Manuel, "He looked sad when I met him,--and sometimes a

flower gives pleasure to a person in sorrow."

The Cardinal thought of his own roses far away, and sighed with a

sensation of longing and homesickness.

"Flowers are like visible messages from God," he said, "Messages

written in all the brightest and loveliest colours! I never gather one

without finding out that it has something to say to me."

"There is a legend," said Manuel, "which tells how a poor girl who has

lost every human creature she loved on earth, had a rose-tree she was

fond of, and every day she found upon it just one bloom. And though she

longed to gather the flower for herself she would not do so, but always

placed it before the picture of the Christ. And God saw her do this, as

He sees everything. At last, quite suddenly she died, and when she

found herself in Heaven, there were such crowds and crowds of angels

about her that she was bewildered, and could not find her way. All at

once she saw a pathway edged with roses before her, and one of the

angels said, 'These are all the roses you gave to our Lord on earth,

and He has made them into a pathway for you which will lead you

straight to those you love!' And so with great joy she followed the

windings of the path, seeing her roses blossoming all the way, and she

found all those whom she had loved and lost on earth waiting to welcome

her at the end!"

"A pretty fancy," said the Cardinal smiling, "And, as not even a

thought is wasted, who knows if it might not prove true?"

"Surely the beautiful must be the true always!" said Manuel.

"Not so, my child,--a fair face may hide an evil soul."

"But only for a little while," answered the boy, "The evil soul must

leave its impress on the face in time, if life lasts long enough."

"That is quite possible," said Bonpre, "In fact, I think it often

happens,--only there are some people who simulate the outward show of

goodness and purity perfectly, while inwardly 'they are as ravening

wolves,' and they never seem to drop the mask. Others again--" Here he

paused and looked anxiously at his young companion, "I wonder what you

will be like when you grow up, Manuel!"

"But if I never grow up, what then?" asked Manuel with a smile.

"Never grow up? You mean--"

"I mean if I die," said Manuel, "or pass through what is called dying

before I grow up?"

"God forbid!" said the Cardinal gently, "I would have you live--"

"But why," persisted Manuel, "since death is a better life?"

Bonpre looked at him wistfully.

"But if you grow up and are good and great, you may be wanted in the

world," he said.

An expression of deep pain swept like a shadow across the boy's fair

open brow.

"Oh no!" he said quietly, "the world does not want me! And yet I love

the world--not because it is a world, for there are millions upon

millions of worlds,--they are as numerous as flowers in a garden--but

because it is a sorrowful world,--a mistaken world,--and because all

the creatures in it have something of God in them. Yes, I love the

world!--but the world does not love me."

He spoke in a tone of gentle pathos, with the resigned and patient air

of one who feels the burden of solitude and the sense of

miscomprehension. And closing the Testament he held he rested his

clasped hands upon it, and for a moment seemed lost in sorrowful

reverie.

"I love you," said the Cardinal tenderly, "And I will take care of you

as well as I can."

Manuel looked up at him.

"And that will be well indeed, my lord Cardinal!" he said softly, "And

you serve a Master who will hereafter say to you, remembering your

goodness,--'Verily, in asmuch as ye have done it unto the least of my

brethren ye have done it unto Me.'"

He smiled; and the Cardinal meeting his glance wondered whether it was

the strong level light of the sinking sun through the window-pane that

made such a glory shine upon his face, and gave such a brilliancy to

his deep and steadfast eyes.