"About your being a minister, of course. Only in France, they call them priests of the church."
The boy's lips went together in a fine straight line. Not for nothing did the blood of many generations of Protestants flow in his veins. "Priest" was a Popish word.
"The Pope of Rome is antichrist!" he declared authoritatively.
She seemed only politely interested.
"Is he? I didn't know." Then, with a tactfulness worthy of graver years, she drew away from the dangerous topic. "When are you going?"
"To-morrow."
"Is it far?"
"Yes; it's an awful long ways."
"Never mind; you'll be coming back after a while, and then we'll be friends—if you want to."
Surely Thomas Jefferson's heart was as wax before the fire that day.