“Why, my love,” said Parson Burly, “you are quite classical in your description; whether or not it is a correct one, is another thing.”

“I assure you, Mr. Burly,” said Van Stingey, “that your lady has not described them beyond what is true.  They are almighty fine young ’uns.”

“I want you to adopt that eldest one, Mr. Burly,” said the parson’s wife, who was president of the council.  “He would make such an elegant preacher, I am sure.  You must also change the name of the second boy from Patrick, which is so Irish, to Ebenezer, Zerubabbel, or some Scripture name, or even classical one.”

“Why, madam, I am beginning to get jealous, and to think you don’t sufficiently admire my powers of oratory,” said her husband.

“Well, my dear, putting aside jokes,” she solemnly remarked, “you know how much we need Irish ministers to preach to the Irish amongst us, who are the best church attenders on earth, I believe.  And it is notorious, that those whom we can take out from the ranks of Papacy while young become the greatest ornaments to our denomination.  Witness Kirvoin, Maclown, Moffat, and several others.”

“Well, well, my fair refuter,” said the parson, who really feared his wife would rivet her affections on the young orphan if adopted; “you know it would never do to keep that little fellow with us.  How old did you say he was—­about fifteen?  Well, fifteen or sixteen—­ya—­you recollect how that old priest acted last July, at the village of Scurvy?  A little girl I sent out to Brother Prim this priest smelt and hunted out; and actually broke in the room door where she was confined, and took her off by physical force to a Roman Catholic orphan house.  These priests are terrible fellows; and your young fancy orphan, Paul, would soon find out the priest, and have his grievance redressed.  And what is worse, this priest got Americans—­ay, members of my own church—­to applaud his conduct, and defend him from prosecution!  The Irish are getting so powerful in this country,” said the parson, after a pause, “from their admirable union of purpose and the perfect organization of their church, that I dread their influence.  In fact, ’you catch a Tartar’ when you get one of them into your family.  Ten to one, instead of converting this young Papist, he would convert our whole family to his own creed.”

“O Burly,” said the disappointed wife, “you are always a prophet of evils.  I tell you, I must have that young lad, for I want him.”

“You do?  Cynthia, my dear,” said the parson, “we cannot have the lad in our family.  We dare not, without the consent of the trustees, who pay us our salary.  Do you understand that, my fair disputant?” said he, triumphantly.

“Well, Burly, as soon as I recover the means my father willed me, I shall have that young man—­already almost fully educated, as you can perceive—­brought up for the church.”

“O, then you can try it, madam,” said the man in white neckcloth, in a sharp, sarcastic style; “but as for me, and I think my opinion is of some weight, I tell you much can never be made out of that shrewd boy.”  There was a solemn, ominous silence, for a moment, in the company.  “Did you remark the sort of dignified and independent motions of the fellow,” continued he, “when you had him here just now?”