“There was Mr. Pilgrim’s.”
“A clergyman?”
“No, a settler. He used to pray and expound every Sunday.”
“What does he call himself?” said Cecil, growing more severe.
“I don’t know,” said Anne. “He gathers together a little flock of all denominations, who only care to hear the word.”
“Such a voice in the wilderness as often does good service,” said Julius, with a perception that the side with which he least agreed best deserved support.
He and Rosamond were bent on a tour of parochial inspection, as were Raymond and Cecil on a more domestic one, beginning with the gardens.
Cecil was the first lady down-stairs, all in claret colour trimmed with gray fur, with a little fur and velvet cap upon her head.
“There! it is a clear morning, and you can see the view,” said Raymond, opening the hall door.
“Very prettily undulating ground,” she said, standing on the steps, and looking over a somewhat rapid slope scattered with trees to the opposite side of the valley, where a park with a red mansion in the midst gleamed out among woods of green, red, orange, and brown tints. “How you are shut in! That great Spanish chestnut must be a perfect block when its leaves are out. My father would never let it stand so near the house.”