“No, indeed, it does not! I allow that it is the face of a refined, thorough-bred ecclesiastic. He was the son of the Church.”
“Yes; he came, indeed, from the tribe of Levi.”
“It is a fine, classical, clearly-chiseled face—the face of a scholar and a gentleman.”
“A little of the fanatic in it—admit that. I have seen pictures of grand inquisitors, by Velasquez, which resemble it.”
“You must not say such things, my dear rector. Look again. I admit that it is a clever face, and I have seen it compared to that of Richelieu and Loyola, as uniting the calm iron will and acute eye of the one with the inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other; but I see more than this, there is the permeation of that serenity which comes from an assurance of the love of God.”
“God love thee, Phyllis! Thou’lt be makkin’ a Methodist o’ me, whether I will or no. I hed no idea afore there was a’ that in t’ picture. I wont stay here any longer. Thanks be! It’s sleeping-time, missee.”
“I should like to sleep in this room, squire.”
“Why, then, rector, thou shall. A bit o’ fire and some aired bed-clothes is a’ it wants. Thou’s sure to sleep well in it, and thou’lt hev t’ sunrise to wake thee up.”
And Phyllis thought, when she saw him in the morning, that he had kept some of the sunshine in his face. He was walking up and down the terrace softly humming a tune to himself, and watching the pigeons promenade with little, timid, rapid steps, making their necks change like opals with every movement. The roofs and lintels and the soft earth was still wet, but the sun shone gloriously, and the clear air was full of a thousand scents.
“How beautiful all is, and how happy you look,” and Phyllis put her hand in the rector’s, and let him lead her to the end of the terrace, where she could see the green country flooded with sunshine.