“First, get an assistant for you.”
The aged rector bent his head.
“Secondly, build a school here for the free education of the colored people who have—they or their forefathers—tilled the soil for near two centuries.”
“Yes! yes! yes!” assented the minister.
“Thirdly, convert the Isle of Storms into a free sanatorium for destitute invalids and children, and to devote some share of my California uncle’s wealth to the necessary expenses. So far, all is clear; beyond this you will kindly direct me, Dr. Shaw.”
“My child, if you set these good works going within the next year, you will have your hands as full as they can hold. Afterward we will talk of other enterprises.”
“And you will aid me with your counsel?”
“Assuredly I shall endeavor to do so.”
“And now, immediately, will you seek out an assistant for yourself? Your wide acquaintance with the young clergy of our church will afford you facilities for suiting your parish. After you shall have secured your co-laborer, and I shall have placed the material and financial part of the school and the sanatorium in the hands of Mr. Merritt, we will go to Europe, and make that promised visit to our friends in Delfcome, this you will kindly direct me, Dr. Shaw.”
“It strikes me as Utopian, my child. At the age of seventy-five, after fifty years in the pulpit, to have my first long holiday, my first visit to Europe—a pleasure I never permitted myself to dream of. But I thank heaven, my dear, that the old man has still health and strength enough left for the voyage.”