There was no more said on the subject. But the thought that Mr. Bowen was praying for me made me feel more confident that everything would turn out best for me, and for those also in whom I was most interested.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE ENCOUNTER AT ST. MARK'S.
I did not forget through the week Mrs. Le Grande's eagerness for Mr. Winthrop to attend church, and although not permitting myself, if possible, to impute false motives to others, I concluded it was not anxiety for his spiritual well-being that prompted the desire on her part. However I resolved to ask him, and was very anxious that he should grant my request. The day dawned bright and clear, one of those hopeful days with promise of the coming summer in the clear shining of the February sun. At breakfast Mr. Winthrop spoke of the rare loveliness of the morning; the blue of the sky, soft and tender as a mother's eye, with here and there a fleecy cloud such as painters love to put on their canvas. Away to the south, the sea was dimpling and sparkling in ten thousand broken ripples, with here and there a brave vessel sailing away over the cold, heaving waters.
Mr. Winthrop seemed in more genial mood than he had been for a week; and when he left the table I followed him to the door, where he stood gazing with eyes trained to take in intelligently the charming scene. I stood silent, entering in a very half-hearted manner into his keen enjoyment of the picture painted by God's own hand, spread out before us.
"It is no use for a man to attempt copying that living, throbbing scene, nor yet to describe it," he said, with an air of dissatisfaction.
"To copy would be easy, compared with creating it," I suggested timidly.
"Yes; but when, and by whom done? That is the question that maddens one," he answered after a long pause.
"The Bible says the same hand that was nailed to the cross on Calvary created it. 'By whom also the worlds were made,'" I murmured.