What career Tony was to follow, what he was to do, was an oft-debated question between her and Dr. Stewart, her worthy adviser in spirituals; and though it was the ever-recurring subject as they sat of an evening in the porch, the solution seemed just as remote as ever,—Mrs. Butler averring that there was nothing that with a little practice he could n't do, and the minister sighingly protesting that the world was very full just now, and there was just barely enough for those who were in it.
“What does he incline to himself, madam?” asked the worthy man, as he saw that his speech had rather a discouraging effect.
“He'd like to follow his father's career, and be a soldier.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed out the minister; “a man must be rich enough to do without a livelihood that takes to that one. What would you say to the sea?”
“He's too old for the navy. Tony will be twenty in August.”
The minister would have liked to hint that other ships went down into the “great waters” as well as those that carried her Majesty's bunting, but he was faint-hearted and silent.
“I take it,” said he, after a pause, “that he has no great mind for the learned professions, as they call them?”
“No inclination whatever, and I cannot say I 'm sorry for it. My poor boy would be lost in that great ocean of world-liness and self-seeking. I don't mean if he were to go into the Church,” said she, blushing crimson at the awkwardness of her speech, “but you know he has no vocation for holy orders, and such a choice would be therefore impossible.”
“I'm thinking it would not be his line, neither,” said the old man, dryly. “What o' the mercantile pursuits? You shake your head. Well, there's farming?”
“Farming, my dear Dr. Stewart,—farming means at least some thousand pounds' capital, backed by considerable experience, and, I fear me, my poor Tony is about as wanting in one as in the other.”