The Voice | Page 7

Ephraim
was joined to his idols. But though it might be right to "let him alone,"
he could not stop calling at Henry Roberts's house; "for," he reminded
himself, "the believing daughter may sanctify the unbelieving father!"
He said this once to Dr. Lavendar, when his roan and old Goliath met
in a narrow lane and paused to let their masters exchange a word or
two.

"But do you know what the believing daughter believes?" said Dr.
Lavendar. He wiped his forehead with his red bandanna, for it was a
hot day; then he put his old straw hat very far back on his head and
looked at the young man with a twinkle in his eye, which, considering
the seriousness of their conversation, was discomfiting; but, after all, as
John Fenn reminded himself, Dr. Lavendar was very old, and so might
be forgiven if his mind was lacking in seriousness. As for his question
of what the daughter believed: "I think--I hope," said the young
minister, "that she is sound. She comes to my church quite regularly."
"But she comes to my church quite irregularly," Dr. Lavendar warned
him; and there was another of those disconcerting twinkles.
The boy looked at him with honest, solemn eyes. "I still believe that
she is sound," he said, earnestly.
Dr. Lavendar blew his nose with a flourish of the red bandanna. "Well,
perhaps she is, perhaps she is," he said, gravely. But the reassurance of
that "perhaps" did not make for John Fenn's peace of mind; he could
not help asking himself whether Miss Philippa WAS a "believing
daughter." She did not, he was sure, share her father's heresies, but
perhaps she was indifferent to them? which would be a grievous thing!
And certainly, as the old minister had declared, she did go "irregularly"
to the Episcopal Church. John Fenn wished that he was sure of Miss
Philippa's state of mind; and at last he said to himself that it was his
duty to find out about it, so, with his little sister beside him, he started
on a round of pastoral calls. He found Miss Philly sitting in the
sunshine on the lowest step of the front porch--and it seemed to Mary
that there was a good deal of delay in getting at the serious business of
play; "for brother talks so much," she complained. But "brother" went
on talking. He told Miss Philippa that he understood she went
sometimes to Old Chester to church?
"Sometimes," she said. "I do not mean," he said, hesitatingly, "to speak
uncharitably, but we all know that Episcopacy is the handmaid of
Papistry."
"Do we?" Philly asked, with grave eyes.

"Yes," said Mr. Fenn. "But even if Dr. Lavendar's teachings are
defective,"--Mary plucked at his sleeve, and sighed loudly; "(no,
Mary!)-- even if his teachings are defective, he is a good man according
to his lights; I am sure of that. Still, do you think it well to attend a
place of worship when you cannot follow the pastor's teachings?"
"I love him. And I don't listen to what he says," she excused herself.
"But you should listen to what ministers say," the shocked young man
pro- tested--"at least to ministers of the right faith. But you should not
go to church because you love ministers."
Philippa's face flamed. "I do not love--most of them."
Mary, leaning against the girl's knee, looked up anxiously into her face.
"Do you love brother?" she said.
They were a pretty pair, the child and the girl, sitting there on the porch
with the sunshine sifting down through the lacy leaves of the two big
locusts on either side of the door. Philippa wore a pink and green
palm-leaf chintz; it had six ruffles around the skirt and was gathered
very full about her slender waist; her lips were red, and her cheeks and
even her neck were delicately flushed; her red-brown hair was blowing
all about her temples; Mary had put an arm around her and was
cuddling against her. Yes, even Mary's brother would have thought the
two young things a pretty sight had there been nothing more serious to
think of. But John Fenn's thoughts were so very serious that even
Mary's question caused him no embarrassment; he merely said, stiffly,
that he would like to see Miss Philippa alone. "You may wait here,
Mary," he told his little sister, who frowned and sighed and went out to
the gate to pull a handful of grass for the roan.
Philippa led her caller to her rarely used parlor, and sat down to listen
in silent pallor to his exhortations. She made no explanations for not
coming to his church regularly; she offered no excuse of filial
tenderness for her indifference to her father's mistaken beliefs; she
looked down