" And then a great sigh broke from Angela's
lips as she thought, "Ah, but the world will never own woman's work
to be great even if it be so, because men give the verdict, and
man's praise is for himself and his own achievements always." "Man's
praise," went on the interior voice, "And what of God's final
justice? Have you not patience to wait for that, and faith to work
for it?" Again Angela sighed; then happening to look up; in the
direction of the music-gallery which occupied one end of her studio
where the organ was fitted, she saw a fair young face peering down
at her over the carved oak railing, and recognised Manuel. She
smiled;--her two or three days' knowledge of him had been more than
sufficient to win her affection and interest.
"So you are up there!" she said, "Is my uncle sleeping?"
"No," replied Manuel, "he is writing many letters to Rome. Will you
come and play to me?"
"Willingly!" and Angela went lightly up the winding steps of the
gallery, "But you have been out all day,--are you not tired?"
"No, not now. I WAS weary,--very weary of seeing and hearing so many
false things . . ."
"False things?" echoed Angela thoughtfully, as she seated herself at
the organ, "What were they?"
"Churches principally," said Manuel quietly; "How sad it is that
people should come into those grand buildings looking for Christ and
never finding Him!"
"But they are all built for the worship of Christ," said Angela,
pressing her small white fingers on the organ keys, and drawing out
one or two deep and solemn sounds by way of prelude, "Why should you
think He is not in them?"
"He cannot be," answered Manuel, "They are all unlike Him! Remember
how poor he was!--He told His followers to despise all riches and
worldly praise!--and now see how the very preachers try to obtain
notice and reward for declaring His simple word! The churches seem
quite empty of Him,--and how empty too must be the hearts and souls
of all the poor people who go to such places to be comforted!"
Angela did not reply,--her hands had unconsciously wandered into the
mazes of a rich Beethoven voluntary, and the notes, firm, grand, and
harmonious, rolled out in the silence with a warm deep tenderness
that thrilled the air as with a rhythmic beat of angels' wings.
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