“Whether they know it or not, I am.”

“I should think they’d know it just to look at him,” said Katy, who thought that Albert’s erudition must be as apparent to everybody as to herself.

Mr. Plausaby quietly remarked that he had no doubt Albert had improved his time at school, a remark which for some undefined reason vexed Albert more than his mother’s censures.

“Well,” said his mother, “a body never has any satisfaction with boys that have got notions.  Deliver me from notions.  Your father had notions.  If it hadn’t been for that, we might all of us have been rich to-day.  But notions kept us down.  That’s what I like about Mr. Plausaby.  He hasn’t a single notion to bother a body with.  But, I think, notions run in the blood, and, I suppose, you’ll always be putting some fool notion or other in your own way.  I meant you to be a lawyer, but I s’pose you’ve got something against that, though it was your own father’s calling.”

“I’d about as soon be a thief as a lawyer,” Albert broke out in his irritation.

“Well, that’s a nice way to speak about your father’s profession, I’m sure,” said his mother.  “But that’s what comes of notions.  I don’t care much, though, if you a’n’t a lawyer.  Doctors make more than lawyers do, and you can’t have any notions against being a doctor.”

“What, and drug people?  Doctors are quacks.  They know that drugs are good for nothing, and yet they go on dosing everybody to make money.  It people would bathe, and live in the open air, and get up early, and harden themselves to endure changes of climate, and not violate God’s decalogue written in their own muscles and nerves and head and stomach, they wouldn’t want to swallow an apothecary-shop every year.”

“Did you ever!” said Mrs. Plausaby, looking at her husband, who smiled knowingly (as much as to reply that he had often), and at Cousin Isa, who looked perplexed between her admiration at a certain chivalrous courage in Albert’s devotion to his ideas, and her surprise at the ultraism of his opinions.

“Did you ever!” said the mother again.  “That’s carrying notions further than your father did.  You’ll never be anything, Albert.  Well, well, what comfort can I take in a boy that’ll turn his back on all his chances, and never be anything but a poor preacher, without money enough to make your mother a Christmas present of a—­a piece of ribbon?”

“Why, ma, you’ve got ribbons enough now, I’m sure,” said Katy, looking at the queer tri-color which her mother was flying in revolutionary defiance of the despotism of good taste.  “I’m sure I’m glad Albert’s going to be a minister.  He’ll look so splendid in the pulpit!  What kind of a preacher will you be, Albert?”

“I hope it’ll be Episcopal, or any way Presbyterian,” said Mrs. Plausaby, “for they get paid better than Methodist or Baptist.  And besides, it’s genteel to be Episcopal.  But, I suppose, some notion’ll keep you out of being Episcopal too.  You’ll try to be just as poor and ungenteel as you can.  Folks with notions always do.”