He said, "Yes," adding, "it is very curious."
"Truly, and any one educated with us at home would be inclined to think it impossible. But since this miracle has been accomplished in one country, I suppose the others will follow. Perhaps the time will come when it will not be counted a crime for one to have a heart and to follow the mandates of that heart. May I keep this paper? If I had a prayer-book, I would put this in it."
He made no answer, but presently said, "The people in Weimar are rather given to innovation." She had hardly heard it, when an expression of deep pain overspread her countenance.
"Do you believe there is a prayer-book," she asked, "that would do for all mankind, no matter what their confession?"
"I don't know, but I will inquire."
"It would be useless, I suppose. As yet there is no occasion for such a book, but the time may come."
The second conversation, relating to something besides the dinner, the weather, or the health of the baby, took place just after a call from the podestà of Riva. Agenor paled when the chief official of the town was announced. But it was a harmless business he had called about. New-Year's Eve there was to be a festival in Trent for the benefit of the poor of Southern Tyrol. The podestà brought cards of invitation to the wealthy forestieri in person, so as to secure a handsome gift. As the stout, olive-complexioned gentleman bowed himself out of the room, elated with the splendid donation he had received, Judith said, "Are you not going?"
"No," was the somewhat surprised reply. "It does not interest me in the slightest degree. Besides, how could I leave you alone?"
"What could happen to me here? I have often thought, though I did not like to say so, that it would be a good thing for you to live for a few weeks in the world. And perhaps it would be--"
"Good for you, too? Has it got so far between us?"