The Master-Christian. Marie Corelli

your kindness?"

      His worn little face upturned, shone in the dingy little room with a sudden brightness such as one might imagine would illumine the features of an angel, and Felix Bonpre looked down upon him half fascinated, in mingled pity and wonder.

      "Such results are with God, my child," he said gently—"I do not seek your gratitude. It is certainly well for me that I should shelter you,—it would be ill indeed if I permitted any living creature to suffer for lack of what I could give. Rest here in peace, and remember it is for my own pleasure as well as for your good that I desire you to sleep well."

      "And you do not even ask my name?" said the boy, half smiling and still raising his sorrowful deep blue eyes to the Cardinal's face.

      "You will tell me that when you please," said Felix, laying one hand upon the soft curls that clustered over his foundling's forehead—"I am in no wise curious. It is enough for me to know that you are a child and alone in the world,—such sorrow makes me your servant."

      Gently the boy loosened his clasp of the Cardinal's hands.

      "Then I have found a friend!" he said,—"That is very strange!" He paused, and the smile that had once before brightened his countenance shone again like a veritable flash of sunlight—"You have the right to know my name, and if you choose, to call me by it,—it is Manuel."

      "Manuel!" echoed the Cardinal—"No more than that?"

      "No more than that," replied the boy gravely—"I am one of the world's waifs and strays,—one name suffices me."

      There followed a brief pause, in which the old man and the child looked at each other full and steadfastly, and once again an inexplicable nervous trembling seized the Cardinal. Overcoming this with an effort, he said softly,—

      "Then—Manuel!—good night! Sleep—and Our Lady's blessing be upon you!"

      Signing the cross in air he retired, carefully shutting the door and leaving his new-found charge to rest. When he was once by himself in the next room, however, he made no attempt to sleep,—he merely drew a chair to the window and sat down, full of thoughts which utterly absorbed him. There was nothing unusual, surely, in his finding a small lost boy and giving him a night's lodging?—then why was he so affected by it? He could not tell. He fully realized that the plaintive beauty of the child had its share in the powerful attraction he felt,—but there was something else in the nature of his emotion which he found it impossible to define. It was as though some great blankness in his life had been suddenly filled;—as if the boy whom he had found solitary and weeping within the porch of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, belonged to him in some mysterious way and was linked to his life so closely and completely as to make parting impossible. But what a fantastic notion! Viewed by the light of calm reason, there was nothing in the occurrence to give rise to any such sentiment. Here was a poor little wayfarer, evidently without parents, home, or friends,—and the Cardinal had given him a night's lodging, and to-morrow—yes, to-morrow, he would give him food and warm clothing and money,—and perhaps a recommendation to the Archbishop in order that he might get a chance of free education and employment in Rouen, while proper enquiries were being made about him. That was the soberly prosaic and commonplace view to take of the matter. The personality of the little fellow was intensely winning,—but after all, that had nothing to do with the facts of the case. He was a waif and stray, as he himself had said; his name, so far as he seemed to know it, was Manuel,—an ordinary name enough in France,—and his age might be about twelve,—not more. Something could be done for him,—something SHOULD be done for him before the Cardinal parted with him. But this idea of "parting" was just what seemed so difficult to contemplate! Puzzled beyond measure at the strange state of mind in which he found himself, Felix Bonpre went over and over again all the events of the day in order,—his arrival in Rouen,—his visit to the Cathedral, and the grand music he had heard or fancied he heard there,—his experience with the sceptical little Patoux children and their mother,—his conversation with the Archbishop, in which he had felt much more excitement than he was willing to admit,—his dream wherein he had been so painfully impressed with a sense of the desertion, emptiness, and end of the world, and finally his discovery of the little lonely and apparently forsaken boy, thrown despairingly as it were against the closed Cathedral, like a frail human wreck cast up from the gulf of the devouring sea. Each incident, trivial in itself, yet seemed of particular importance, though he could not explain or analyse why it should be so. Meditatively he sat and watched the moon sink like a silver bubble falling downward in the dark,—the stars vanished one by one,—and a faint brown-gold line of suggestive light in the east began the slow creation of a yet invisible dawn. Presently, yielding to a vague impulse of inexplicable tenderness, he rose softly and went to the threshold of the room where his foundling slept. Holding his breath, he listened—but there was no sound. Very cautiously and noiselessly he opened the door, and looked in,—a delicate half-light came through the latticed window and seemed to concentrate itself on the bed where the tired wanderer lay. His fine youthful profile was distinctly outlined,—the soft bright hair clustered like a halo round his broad brows,—and the two small hands were crossed upon his breast, while in his sleep he smiled. Always touched by the beauty, innocence and helplessness of childhood, something in the aspect of this little lad moved the venerable prelate's heart to an unwonted emotion,—and looking upon him, he prayed for guidance as to what he should best do to rescue so gentle and young a creature from the cruelties of the world.

V.

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      "He has trusted me," said the Cardinal,—"I have found him, and I cannot—dare not—forsake him. For the Master says 'Whosoever shall receive one such little child in My name receiveth Me'."

      The next morning broke fair and calm, and as soon as the Patoux household were astir, Cardinal Bonpre sought Madame Patoux in her kitchen, and related to her the story of his night's adventure. She listened deferentially, but could not refrain from occasional exclamations of surprise, mingled with suggestions of warning.

      "It is like your good heart, Monseigneur," she said, "to give your own bed to a stray child out of the street,—one, too, of whom you know nothing,—but alas! how often such goodness is repaid by ingratitude! The more charity you show the less thanks you receive,—yes, indeed, it is often so!—and it seems as if the Evil One were in it! For look you, I myself have never done a kindness yet without getting a cruelty in exchange for it."

      "That is a sad experience, my daughter," returned the Cardinal smiling,—"Nevertheless, it is our duty to go on doing kindnesses, no matter what the results to ourselves may be. It is understood—is it not? that we are to be misjudged in this world. If we had nothing to suffer, what would be the use of exercising such virtues as patience and endurance?"

      "Ah, Monseigneur, for you it is different," said Madame Patoux shaking her head and sighing—"You are like the blessed saints—safe in a niche of Holy Church, with Our Lady for ever looking after you. But for poor people such as we are—we see the rough side of life, Monseigneur—and we know that there is very little goodness about in the world,—and as for patience and endurance!—why, no one in these days has the patience to endure even the least contradiction! Two men,—aye even brothers,—will fight for a word like mongrels quarrelling over a bone;—and two women will scream themselves hoarse if one should have a lover more than the other—asking your pardon, Monseigneur, for such wicked talk! Still, wicked as it may be, it is true—and not all the powers of Heaven seem to care about making things better. And for this boy,—believe me,—you had better leave him to his own way—for there will be no chance of getting such a poor little waif into the school unless his father and mother are known, or unless someone will adopt him, which is not likely . . . for Rouen is full of misery, and there are enough mouths to feed in most families—and . . . mon Dieu!—is that the child?"

      Thus abruptly she broke off her speech, utterly taken aback as she suddenly perceived the little Manuel standing before her. Poorly clad in the roughest garments as he was, his grace and plaintive beauty moved her heart to quick compassion