"I see it, Beatrice. Yes, Meadowsweet was not cankered by the sordid cares of life."
"Truly he was not? Go on thinking about him. He made money. How did he spend it?"
"My dear child, your father was a very good man. His charities were extraordinary and extensive. He gave away, hoping for nothing in return; he was too liberal, I often told him so."
"You were his clergyman and you told him so."
A flash of indignation came out of Beatrice Meadowsweet's eyes.
"I don't think, Mr. Ingram, that a Greater than you has ever said that to my father."
"Well, child, perhaps not. You reprove me, perhaps justly. Few of us have your father's unworldly spirit."
"Don't you think his only daughter may inherit a little of it? Mr. Ingram, what is money for?"
"Beatrice, you could argue any one into thinking with you. But I must exercise my own common-sense."
"No, you must not. You must exercise your unworldly sense, and help me in this matter."