'"
Leslie Goldthwaite's face quickened and glowed; they were the psalm
lines that had haunted her thought yesterday, among the opening visions
of the hill-country. Marmaduke Wharne bent his keen eyes upon her, from
under their gray brows, noting her narrowly. She wist not that she was
noted, or that her face shone.
"One soul here, at least!" was what the stern old man said to himself in
that moment.
He was cynical and intolerant here among the mountains, where he felt
the holy places desecrated, and the gift of God unheeded. In the haunts
of city misery and vice,--misery and vice shut in upon itself, with no
broad outlook to the heavens,--he was tender, with the love of Christ
himself.
"'My house shall be called the house of prayer, but these have made it a
den of thieves.' It is true not alone of the temples built with hands."
"Is that fair? How do you _know_, Mr. Wharne?" The sudden, impetuous
questions come from Leslie Goldthwaite.
"I see--what I see."
"The whole?" said Leslie, more restrainedly. She remembered her respect
for age and office.
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