It
was a handsome bedroom, but evidently one that was rarely used.
"Look 'ee here, now;" and he lifted the candle toward a picture over
the fire place. "Who do you mak' that out to be?"
"John Wesley," said Phyllis.
"For sure; it's John Wesley, and in this room he slept at intervals
for thirty years. My great grandfather, Squire Gregory Hallam, was
a Methodist--one o' t' first o' them--and so you see, Phyllis, my lass,
you hev come varry naturally by your way o' thinking."
The rector was examining the face with great interest. "It is a
wonderful countenance," he said; "take a look at it, Miss Fontaine,
and see if it does not bear out what I accidentally said about La
Trappe."
"No, indeed, it does not! I allow that it is the face of a refined,
thorough-bred ecclesiastic. He was the son of the Church."
"Yes; he came, indeed, from the tribe of Levi."
"It is a fine, classical, clearly-chiseled face--the face of a scholar
and a gentleman."
"A little of the fanatic in it--admit that. I have seen pictures of
grand inquisitors, by Velasquez, which resemble it."
"You must not say such things, my dear rector. Look again. I admit
that it is a clever face, and I have seen it compared to that of
Richelieu and Loyola, as uniting the calm iron will and acute eye of
the one with the inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other;
but I see more than this, there is the permeation of that serenity
which comes from an assurance of the love of God.
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