Dr. McPherson shook himself like a shaggy dog.
"Well, Batholommey," he said, "religion has frequently led to the stake, and I never heard the Spanish Inquisition called healthy for anybody taking part in it. Still, religion flourishes. But your old-fashioned, unscientific, gilt, gingerbread idea of heaven blew up ten years ago—went out. My heaven's just coming in. It's new. Dr. Funk and a lot of clergymen are in already. You'd better get used to it, Batholommey, and join in the procession."
Having delivered this ultimatum the doctor became oblivious to the existence of the Batholommey family and gave his whole attention once more to his writing.
"H'm!" said Mr. Batholommey tolerantly. "When you can convince me!" (He lapsed into Dutch.) "Well, tou roustin, Doctor."
The clergyman started for the door, but his dutiful wife was there before him, his umbrella in her hand.
"Good-night, Henry," she said, beaming affectionately on him. "I'll be home to-morrow."
Then with a most coquettish glance, she purred coyly:
"You'll be glad to see me, dear, won't you?"
Mr. Batholommey beamed in his turn, and patted her on the cheek.
"Yes, my church mouse!" he said as he kissed her good-bye and went out into the night.