“I think Cyril must have felt something of the kind. So far it has never stirred me. Isn’t it wise to hold fast by what is safe and familiar?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Prescott answered with a smile. “I follow the course you mention, because I have to. It’s my business to drive the plow, and the hazard of having a crop hailed out is adventure enough. But I don’t think it should make one hard on the people who prefer the other thing. After all, they may be right; the life they take pleasure in may be the best for them, though it wouldn’t appeal to you or me.”
“I’m not sure that toleration should be encouraged. It often means indifference, perhaps a lack of principle.”
She grasped tightly the rail around the seat, for the horses plunged down a sandy slope at a wild gallop, passing at the bottom a horse and buggy in which sat a man dressed in a dark gray suit, to whom Prescott waved his hand.
“Is he a clergyman?” asked Gertrude.
“Well,” Prescott smiled, “he’s a Presbyterian minister. I suppose you think there’s a difference?”
His companion with unusual forbearance let this pass.
“Then you have churches at Sebastian?”
“Four. I can’t say they’re crowded; but, while we’re liberal-minded on many points, the flocks won’t mix. Strikes me as a pity.”
“It is a pity; there should be only one strong and united church in every place.”