He drew himself up with an expression of immense consequence, and began to declaim:
“‘Dick,’ says he,
‘What,’ says he,
‘Fetch me my hat,’ says he,
‘For I will go,’ says he,
‘To Timahoe,’ says he,
‘To the fair,’ says he,
‘To buy all that’s there,’ says he.”
“You’ve made out the whole sum!” was her joyful interpretation.
“Yes; and more,” he answered. “I am rich, Mother Chevreuse. All the way home, my mind has been running on golden altar-services and old masters.”
Mother Chevreuse seated herself behind the tea-tray, set a green and gold cup into its appropriate saucer, and selected a particular spoon which she always gave her son—one with a wheat-ear curling about the quaint, half-effaced initials; he, insensible man that he was, unconscious whether it was silver or tin.
“While you have a resting-place for the Master of masters, you need not give much thought to any other,” she said. “But I own that my thoughts often run on a golden altar-service. Only to-day I was reckoning that what I possess of my own would buy one.”
“O vanity!” laughed the priest. “You want to make a show, mother. Instead of being content to help with the brick and mortar, or the iron pillars, you must approach the very Holy of Holies, and shine in the tabernacle itself. Fie, Mother Chevreuse!”
“I mentioned it to F. White,” she said, “and he almost reproved me. He said that there was more need of feeding the hungry than of buying golden altar-vessels. I told him that gold endures, but bread is soon eaten; and he answered that, if the eating of bread saved from theft or starvation, and put hope into a breaking heart, it was making finer gold than could be wrought into a chalice. A good deal of grace may be found in a loaf of bread, said F. White.”
“That’s true,” answered the priest cheerfully. “F. White has sense, though he grudges me a gold chalice. I’ll remember that when he comes here begging for his organ. F. White, says I, it’s sheer vanity to talk of organs when there are suffering poor in the world. A tobacco-pipe is better than an organ-pipe, when it stops an oath in the mouth of a poor hod-carrier who has no other comfort but his smoke. Much grace may be found in a clay pipe, F. White, my darling.”