It’s no good my talking to him about the religious side of it all; he thinks I know nothing at all about the next world, though I’m sure—”
“Tell me,” said the girl suddenly, still in the same attitude, “has he been practicing his religion? You see, I haven’t seen much of him this year, and—”
“I’m afraid not very well,” said the old lady tolerantly.
“He thought he was going to be a priest at first, you remember, and I’m sure I should have made no objection; and then in the spring he seemed to be getting rather tired of it all. I don’t think he gets on with Father Mahon very well. I don’t think Father Mahon understands him quite. It was he, you know, who told him not to be a priest, and I think that discouraged poor Laurie.”
“I see,” said the girl shortly. And Mrs. Baxter applied herself again to her sewing.
It was indeed a rather trying time for the old lady.
She was a tranquil and serene soul; and it seemed as if she were doomed to live over a perpetual volcano. It was as pathetic as an amiable cat trying to go to sleep on a rifle range; she was developing the jumps.
The first serious explosion had taken place two years before, when her son, then in his third year at Oxford, had come back with the announcement that Rome was the only home worthy to shelter his aspiring soul, and that he must be received into the Church in six weeks’ time.
She had produced little books for his edification, as in duty bound, she had summoned Anglican divines to the rescue; but all had been useless, and Laurie had gone back to Oxford as an avowed proselyte.