The parson pushed his sermon from him in a sort of patient hopelessness, and turned round on his chair. “To be?—In what way, Rebecca?”
“By profession,” she answered. “I fancy it is time it was thought of.”
“Do you? I’m sure I don’t know. The other day when something was being mentioned about it, Jack said he did not care what he was to be, provided he had no books to trouble him.”
“I only hope you will not have trouble with him, Jacob, dear,” observed Mrs. Dean, in ominous tones, that plainly intimated she thought the parson would.
“He has a good heart, though he is not so studious as his brother. Why have you shut the window, Rebecca? It is very warm.”
Mrs. Dean did not say why. Perhaps she wished to guard against the conversation being heard. When any question not quite convenient to answer was put to her, she had a way of passing it over in silence; and the parson was too yielding or too inert to ask again.
“Of course, Brother Jacob, you will make Herbert the heir.”
The parson looked surprised. “Why should you suppose that, Rebecca? I think the two boys ought to share and share alike.”
“My dear Jacob, how can you think so? Your dead wife left you in charge, remember.”
“That’s what I do remember, Rebecca. She never gave me the slightest hint that she should wish any difference to be made: she was as fond of one boy as of the other.”