"That when one cannot understand Scripture, it is perhaps for the reason that 'THE LETTER KILLETH, BECAUSE LACKING THE SPIRIT THAT GIVETH LIFE."
The boy spoke gently and with grace and modesty,—but something in the tone of his voice had a strange effect on the cynical temperament of Abbe Vergniaud.
"Here," he mused, "is a lad in whom the principle of faith is strong and pure,—shall I drop the poison of doubt into the open flower of his mind, or leave it uncontaminated?" Aloud he said, kindly,
"You speak well,—you have evidently thought for yourself. Who taught you to recognise 'the Spirit that giveth life'?"
Manuel smiled.
"Does that need teaching?" he asked.
Radiance shone in his eyes,—the look of purity and candour on his young face was infinitely touching to the two men who beheld it,—the one worn with age and physical languors, the other equally worn in mind, if not in body. In the brief silence which followed,—a silence of unexpressed feeling,—a soft strain of organ-music came floating deliciously towards them,—a delicate thread of grave melody which wove itself in and out the airspaces, murmuring suggestions of tenderness and appeal. Angela smiled, and held up one finger, listening.
"That is Mr. Leigh!" she said, "He is in my studio improvising."
"Happy Mr. Leigh!" said the Abbe with a little malicious twinkle in his eyes, "To be allowed to improvise at all in the studio of the Sovrani!"
Angela flushed, and lifted her fair head with a touch of pride.