The Voice

Dr. Lavendar, said William King, some time when Goliath is doing his 2.40 on a plank road, don't you want to pull him up at that house on the Perryville pike where the Grays used to live, and make a call? An old fellow called Roberts has taken it; he is a—
Teach your grandmother, said Dr. Lavendar; he is an Irvingite. He comes from Lower Ripple, down on the Ohio, and he has a daughter, Philippa.
Oh, said Dr. King, you know 'em, do you?
Know them? Of course I know them! Do you think you are the only man who tries to enlarge his business? But I was not successful in my efforts. The old gentleman doesn't go to any church; and the young lady inclines to the Perryville meeting-house—the parson there is a nice boy.
She is an attractive young creature, said the doctor, smiling at some pleasant memory; the kind of girl a man would like to have for a daughter. But did you ever know such an old-fashioned little thing!
Well, she's like the girls I knew when I was the age of the Perryville parson, so I suppose you'd call her old-fashioned, Dr. Lavendar said. There aren't many such girls nowadays; sweet-tempered and sensible and with some fun in 'em.
Why don't you say 'good,' too? William King inquired.
Unnecessary, Dr. Lavendar said, scratching Danny's ear; anybody who is amiable, sensible, and humorous is good. Can't help it.
The father is good, William King said, but he is certainly not sensible. He's an old donkey, with his TONGUES and his VOICE!
Dr. Lavendar's face sobered. No, he said, he may be an Irvingite, but he isn't a donkey.
What on earth is an Irvingite, anyhow? William asked.