her forms of
ritualism were totally unknown to him.

"That's Catholic, Catie," he reminded her. "Of course, I sha'n't do
that."

"No; 'twas Episcopal," she contradicted. "It said so, on a sign beside
the door. But, Scott, that makes me think--"

"Well?" he asked, wondering at her hesitation.

"Would you mind very much," she came forward to his side and fell to
fingering the top button of his coat caressingly; "would you mind it so
very much not to call me Catie any more?"

Absorbed as he was in his theological transference, he had felt sure
that her request was on that selfsame theme, the more so, even, by
reason of her unwonted hesitation. In his extreme surprise, he laughed
a little at her question.

"Why not, Catie?"

She held up a forefinger of arch admonition.

"There you go again!" she told him, with mock petulance. "Do listen to
me, Scott. You're so interested in your everlasting old churches that
you haven't an idea to spare for me. I want you to promise that you
won't ever call me Catie any more."

"But why? What shall I call you?" he inquired, with masculine and dazed
bluntness.

"Catia. It is ever so much prettier; Catie is so babyish," she urged
him.

"But, if it is your name?" he urged in return.

Her retort came with unexpected pith and promptness. Moreover, it
struck home.

"So is the Baptist your church," she answered pertly. "I guess I have a
right to change, as well as you."

Mrs. Brenton, that same evening, took the disclosure in quite a
different spirit. To her mind, the relaxing of one's creed spelt ruin,
the doorway of the church Episcopal was but the outer portal of the
Church of Rome and, like all elderly women of puritanic stock who have
spent their lives in a Protestant community, Mrs. Brenton looked on
Rome as the last station but one upon the broad road to hell. None the
less, she strove to phrase her objections as gently as she was able.
However misguided Scott might be, she saw that he was in earnest, and
upon that account she was the more loath to hurt him.

"Scott," she said, with what appeared to herself to be the extreme of
tolerance; "if you must, I suppose you must; but I am sure that it will
kill your grandfather."

If Scott, just then, had been in a mood for theological discussion, he
might have pointed out to his mother the flaw in the logic of her own
belief. Grandfather Wheeler, translated into the glory that awaits the
faithful servant of the Lord, in all