"The very voice,—the very voice of Rachel!" says the Doctor to himself, quickening his laggard step to keep pace with Reuben.
"There are such lots of things to show you, father! Look in this store, now. You can step in, if you like. It's the largest carpet-store in the United States, three stories packed full. There's the head man of the firm,—the stout man in a white choker; with half a million, they say: he's a deacon in Mowry's church."
"I hope, then, Reuben, that he makes a worthy use of his wealth."
"Oh, he gives thunderingly to the missionary societies," said Reuben, with a glibness that grated on the father's ear.
"You see that building yonder? That's Gothic. They've got the finest bowling-alleys in the world there."
"I hope, my son, you never go to such places?"
"Bowl? Oh, yes, I bowl sometimes: the physicians recommend it; good exercise for the chest. Besides, it's kept by a fine man, and he's got one of the prettiest little trotting horses you ever saw in your life."
"Why, my son, you don't mean to tell me that you know the keeper of this bowling-alley?"
"Oh, yes, father,—we fellows all know him; and he gave me a splendid cigar the last time I was there."
"You don't mean to say that you smoke, Reuben?" said the old gentleman, gravely.