Читать книгу A Singular Life - Elizabeth Stuart Phelps - Страница 6

Then the Professor mentioned to the other B a certain feature of the famous Presbyterian trial for heresy, at that time wrenching the religious world. Bayard turned to listen, and the discussion which followed soon absorbed him.

The face of the Professor of Theology grew grave as he approached the topic of his favorite heresy. Stern lines cut themselves about his fine mouth. His gentle eyes darkened. He felt keenly the responsibility of the influence that he bore over his students, even in hours of what he called social relaxation, and the necessity of defending the truth was vividly present to his trained conscience. Bayard watched his host with troubled admiration. It was with a start that he heard a woman’s voice sweetly breaking in upon the conversation. She was speaking to the guest of the flannel shirt.

“Oh, have you seen the snow professor since the rain? He’s melted into such a lovely slush!”

“Helen!” rebuked her mother plaintively. “Helen, Helen!”

But the Professor smiled—a warm smile peculiar to himself. He shot a tender look across the table at his daughter. He did not resume the subject of the Presbyterian trial.

“The trouble with the snow professor,” suggested Bayard, “is that he had the ice in his head, but the sun at his heart.”

Helen Carruth turned quickly towards him. Her glance lingered into a look distinctly personal and indistinctly grateful. She made no answer, but her eyes and the student’s understood each other.