“What Church, Captain?” I repeated, bending my face to his.
“Rome,” he answered.
“In what religion did your mother die?” said I.
His eyes ceased to wander, he gazed at me steadfastly; but as he was silent, I again asked him in what faith his mother had died.
“She was a Protestant,” he answered; “she belonged to the Church of England.”
“Leave your money to the Church in whose faith your mother sleeps. Should not a mother’s faith be the holiest of all to a child? Captain, there is no better faith than was your mother’s.”
“Who talks to me of my mother?” said he. “She married Bartholomew Tulp. Well, she was a very good woman. She has gone to God. She was poor—she married for a home, and to help me, as I have often since believed. I will leave my money to her memory. What time is it?”
I again told him the time.
“How is the weather?”
“A fine, quiet night.”