Any evidence of the Tenor's simple piety, which was neither concealed nor displayed, because it was in no way affected but quite natural to him, and he was, therefore, unconscious of it, had a peculiar effect upon the Boy. It seemed to shock him. But whether it made him feel ashamed or not, it is impossible to say. Sometimes, the first effect over, he would remain thoughtful, as if subdued by it; but at others it appeared to have irritated him, and made him aggressively cynical.
To-night he was all subdued.
"You believe it, Israfil, don't you?" he said. "'He watching' is a fact for you?"
The Tenor did not answer, except by folding his hands upon his book again, and looking at the Boy.
"Now, I don't believe a word of it," the latter pursued, "but it makes me feel. I have my moments. The Bible is a wonderful book. I open it sometimes, and read it haphazard. I did last night, and came upon—oh, Israfil, the grand simplicity of it all! the wonderful solemn earnestness! It brought me to my knees, and made me hold up my hands; but I could not pray. I heard the chime, though, that night. It sounded insistent. It seemed to assert itself in a new way. It was as if it spoke to me alone, and I felt a strange sense of something pending—something for which I shall have to answer. 'He watching.' Yes. I feel all that. But"—dejectedly—"one feels so much more than one knows; and when I want to know, I am never satisfied. Trying to find the little we know amongst the lot that we feel is a veritable search for mignonette seeds in sand."
The Tenor continued silent and thoughtful for a time. "But do you never pray, dear Boy?" he said at last.
The Boy shook his head.
"Did you never?"
"Oh, yes,"—more cheerfully. "I used to believe in all the bogies at one time."
"I am afraid you have been brought under some bad influence, then. Tell me, who was it?"