mmey, unlike her temporising husband, did not hesitate.
She rushed into the conversation all unasked.

"Oh, no, you don't!" she cried. "You may flout _our_ beliefs,--but
wouldn't you like to bolster up your report with an endorsement by the
wife of a clergyman! It sounds so respectable and sane, doesn't it? No,
sir! You can't prop up your wild-eyed theories against the good black of
_one_ minister's coat. Not by any means! I think myself that you have
probably stumbled on the truth about Willem's mother; but that doesn't
prove there's anything in all your notions, for that child knew the
truth all along. He's eight years old and he was with her until he was
five;--and five's the age of memory. He's a precocious boy, besides.
Every incident of his mother's life lingered in his little mind. Suppose
you prove by her that it's all true?--Still, _Willem remembered_! And
that's all there is to it."

Confident that she had made a good point, Mrs. Batholommey gave her head
a toss and left the field, or to be more exact, went out to get her
husband's umbrella.

Mr. Batholommey felt that after this display of colours on the part of
his consort, he must needs testify also.

"Don't you think, Doctor,--(mind, I'm not opposing your ideas. I'm just
echoing just what everybody else thinks)--don't you believe these ideas
are leading away from the heaven we were taught to believe in; that they
tend toward irresponsibility--toward eccentricity? Is it healthy--that's
the idea. Is it--_healthy_?"

Dr. McPherson shook himself like a shaggy dog.

"Well, Batholommey," he said, "religion has frequently led to the stake,
and I never heard the Spanish Inquisition called _healthy_ for anybody
taking part in it. Still, religion flourishes. But your old-fashioned,
unscientific, gilt, gingerbread idea of heaven blew up ten years
ago--went out. _My_ heaven's just coming in. It's new. Dr. Funk and a
lot of clergymen are in already. You'd better get used to it,
Batholommey, and join in the procession."

Having delivered this ultimatum the doctor became oblivious to the
existence of the Batholommey family and gave his whole attention once
more to his writing.

"H'm!" said Mr. Batholommey tolerantly. "When you can convince _me_!"
(He lapsed into Dutch.) "Well, _tou roustin_, Doctor."

The clergyman started for the door, but his dutiful wife was there
before him, his umbrella in her hand.

"Good-night, Henry," she said, beaming affectionately o