"And now you see why Easthampton is peculiarly adapted to the end in view. No man can point to Mark Claghorn and ask, 'Who is he?' His name was carved in that region two centuries since."
"But you and your son are, I believe, liberal in your religious views. The Claghorns——"
"Have always kept the faith—with one notable exception"—the philosopher bowed acceptance of the compliment—"but I object to being called liberal, as you define the term; we are Catholics, that is to say, Anglicans."
"Humph!" muttered the philosopher dubiously.
"And I intend," pursued the lady, "to proclaim my creed by an act which I know is daring, but which will have the advantage of rooting my son and his descendants in the soil of Easthampton. I intend to build, to the memory of my husband, a High-Church chapel, a work of art that shall be unequalled in the country."
"Daring, indeed! Rash——"
"Not rash; but were it so, I should still do that which I have planned. My husband longed to return to the home of his boyhood, had fully resolved on purchasing the Seminary tract. He shall sleep where his ancestor sleeps." She turned her head to conceal a tear; the philosopher turned his to conceal a smile.
"In this pious and appropriate design, my dear Cousin," he murmured——
"I shall have your sympathy; I was sure of it. I want more; I want your aid."
In view of its wealthy source the suggestion was not alarming. The gentleman promised it to the extent of his poor powers, intimating, however, that connubial fidelity might conflict with maternal ambition, a result which he deprecated as deplorable.