"I did not say so, Cardo; but certainly I should prefer my son's risking his life for a member of the church."
Cardo made a gesture of impatience which his father saw and felt. It irritated him, and, fixing his eyes steadily on his son's face, he said:
"I don't know how it is, but of late that subject has frequently been on your tongue. I have no cause to love the Methodists, and I hope they are not now going to add to my reasons for disliking them by coming between me and my son. I simply wish you not to mention them to me, Cardo—that is not much to ask."
"I will not, father," said Cardo, pushing his plate away; "I will never mention them to you again—"
"Good!" replied his father. "I have a letter here which I would like to read to you, but not this morning, as I am very busy."
"All right, father—in the afternoon," said Cardo; and when Betto appeared to clear away the breakfast things he was lost in a profound reverie, his long legs stretched out before him and his hands buried deep in his pocket.
Betto tried in vain to recall him to outward surroundings by clattering her china and by sundry "h'ms" and coughs, but Cardo still remained buried in thought and jingling his money in his pocket. At last she accidentally jerked his head with her elbow.
"Hello, Betto! what is the matter?"
"My dear boy," said Betto, "did I hurt you? Where were you so late last night?"
"Oh, out in the storm. Have you seen my wet clothes? I flung them out through my bedroom window; you will find them in a heap on the garden wall."