'I never go to church,' was his reply.
My mother looked grieved, but she entered into no argument with him.
'You have no objection to our going?' she said timidly.
'What have I to do with it? I dictate to no one. If you think it right to go to church, go.'
'Is there one near, Bryan?'
'Zion Chapel isn't two minutes' walk.'
Uncle Bryan asked no questions when we returned, and the day passed quietly. He devoted the evening to smoking and reading. My mother did not like the smoke at first, but it was not long before she schooled herself to fill uncle Bryan's pipe for him. So, with a pair of horn spectacles on his nose, and his pipe in his mouth, uncle Bryan read and enjoyed his leisure. Occasionally he took his pipe from his mouth, and read a few words aloud. At one time he became deeply engrossed in a book which he took from a shelf in the shop, and he read the following passage aloud:
'That the consciousness of existence is not dependent on the same form or the same matter is demonstrated to our senses in the works of the Creator, as far as our senses are capable of receiving that demonstration. A very numerous part of the animal creation preaches to us, far better than Paul, the belief in a life hereafter. Their little life resembles an earth and a heaven, a present and a future state; and comprises, if it may be so expressed, immortality in miniature.'
'Immortality in miniature!' repeated my mother, in a puzzled tone. 'What is that from, Bryan?'
'The Age of Reason,' he answered.