The man stared. “The Gospel of Christ. There is no other.” He knew who Mr. Vane was, and had expected to be himself recognized. “It is time the Gospel should be preached in this wicked and idolatrous city.”
“Is it worse than other cities?” Mr. Vane asked calmly. “Most cities are wicked, but few cities have saints in them, as this has. We are told that the wheat and the tares shall grow together till the final harvest. As for your religion”—he stretched his hand to a load of straw that was passing, and drew a handful out—“it has no more Gospel in it than there is wheat in that straw.”
The rattling bells of Sant’Antonino were ringing for the Tantum Ergo. He turned, without another word, and went back, kneeling just within the door till the Benediction was over.
When he went into the house the Signora was singing the “He was despised and rejected of men,” from the Messiah. Before her on the piano stood a picture that had just been sent her—her favorite devotional picture, which she had
long been trying to get. Outside a door, overgrown with vines and weeds, and fastened by a bolt, stood the Lord, waiting sorrowfully and patiently, listening if his knock would be answered. Solitude and the damp shades of night were all about him, the stars looked cold and far away, and the lantern he held at his side, faintly lighting his face, showed through what rough, dark ways he had come to that inhospitable heart. Underneath was written: “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock.”
The Signora was singing, “And we hid, as it were, our faces from him: he was despised, and we esteemed him not,” tears rolling down her face, her eyes fixed on the picture. Finishing, scarcely uttering, indeed, the last word, she started up and kissed the picture in a passion, then, hurrying across the room, flung the door wide.
“Open every door in the house!” she cried out.
Bianca, surprised but sympathizing, simply obeyed, and pushed open the door near her; Isabel exclaimed, “Dear Signora!” and seemed half frightened. Mr. Vane stood silent and looked at the picture.
“Oh! I know it is figurative and means the heart!” the Signora went on, as if some one had reproved her. “But when we do something material, we know that we have done it. When we think we have done a spiritual good, how can we know that it is worth anything for us—that the motive was not selfish? If, for example, the Lord should come here now, poor and hungry, and knock at my door, I would serve him on my knees; but if I should say I love him, who knows if it would be true?”
“Signora mia!” It was a thin