a kinsman."

"That's very curious," said his mother.

"I don't see what it's got to do with your cousin Phillida or with
religion," said Mr. Gouverneur, who as an elder in the Dutch Reformed
Church, and as the descendant of a long line of men and women who had
traveled in the same well-worn path since the good old days of the Synod
of Dort, felt much annoyed at Philip's waywardness.

"Well," said Philip, leaning back in his chair and letting the folio
rest on his knees, "you see there are religious totems that run through
all denominations of Christians and even through different religions,
and the lines of cleavage between them are deeper than those between
Moslems and Christians, or between Jews and idolaters. There is what I
call the totem of the Wahahbees--the people who translate religion into
dispute or persecution. In central Asia they get rid of an opponent by
assassination in the name of Almighty God and his prophet. In the United
States doctrine defenders are inconveniently placed, and they have to be
content with newspaper and pulpit scolding and with excommunicating
those who differ from them. Then there is the most respectable sect of
all--the Pharisees, which counts eminent divines and rabbis of every
religion among its people. Great church-goers and Sabbath-keepers, great
distributors of shalls and shall-nots, great observers of scruples and
ordinances. They hold a tight rein over recreations and keep their
mint-and-cumin tithes by double-entry. Now, Phillida is no Wahahbee and
she is no Pharisee. She is not above enjoying herself at your table on
Sunday evening, you see, or going to Mrs. Hilbrough's reception. She
takes her religion in the noblest way. Her enthusiasms all have a
philanthropic coloring. She's what I call a Jesus-ite."

"Ah, now, Philip," said his mother, half-amused and half-startled by the
irreverent sound of this expression, but full of admiration for Philip's
originality.

"And what are _you_, please?" demanded his father with some severity and
a slightly heightened color. He knew that Philip must be wrong, for he
had never seen anything of this sort in the "Christian Intelligencer" in
his life. "What are you?" he repeated.

"Only a poor doubting, mocking, useless Sadducee, I suppose," said the
son as he bent again over the Religio Medici. There was a touch of
dejection in his voice, which served to disarm that resentment which his
father felt towards every view of anything that