“Yes, he’s taken his time about it, and he’s consulted about all the known authorities,” said his son, humorously.  “Went right back to the Manchester school to begin with—­sat out on the verandah reading Cobden and Bright the whole summer; if anybody came for advice sent ’em in to me.  I did a trade, I tell you!  He thought they talked an awful lot of sense, those fellows—­from the English point of view.  ‘D’ye mean to tell me,’ he’d say, ’that a generation born and bred in political doctrine of that sort is going to hold on to the colonies at a sacrifice?  They’d rather let ’em go at a sacrifice!’ Well, then he got to reading the other side of the question, and old Ormiston lent him Parkin, and he lent old Ormiston Goldwin Smith, and then he subscribed to the Times for six months—­the bill must have nearly bust him; and then the squire went over without waiting for him and without any assistance from the Times either; and finally—­well, he says that if it’s good enough business for the people of England it’s good enough business for him.  Only he keeps on worrying about the people of England, and whether they’ll make enough by it to keep them contented, till he can’t next month all right, he wants it to be distinctly understood that family connection has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course it hasn’t,” Advena said.

“But we’re just as much obliged,” remarked Stella.

“A lot of our church people are going to stay at home election day,” declared Abby; “they won’t vote for Lorne, and they won’t vote against imperialism, so they’ll just sulk.  Silly, I call it.”

“Good enough business for us,” said Alec.

“Well, what I want to know is,” said Mrs Murchison, “whether you are coming to the church you were born and brought up in, Abby, or not, tonight?  There’s the first bell.”

“I’m not going to any church.” said Abby.  “I went this morning.  I’m going home to my baby.”

“Your father and mother,” said Mrs Murchison, “can go twice a day, and be none the worse for it.  By the way, Father, did you know old Mrs Parr was dead?  Died this morning at four o’clock.  They telephoned for Dr Drummond, and I think they had little to do, for he had been up with her half the night already, Mrs Forsyth told me.”

“Did he go?” asked Mr Murchison.

“He did not, for the very good reason that he knew nothing about it.  Mrs Forsyth answered the telephone, and told them he hadn’t been two hours in his bed, and she wouldn’t get him out again for an unconscious deathbed, and him with bronchitis on him and two sermons to preach today.”

“I’ll warrant Mrs Forsyth caught it in the morning,” said John Murchison.

“That she did.  The doctor was as cross as two sticks that she hadn’t had him out to answer the phone.  ’I just spoke up,’ she said, ’and told him I didn’t see how he was going to do any good to the pour soul over a telephone wire.’  ‘It isn’t that,’ he said, ’but I might have put them on to Peter Fratch for the funeral.  We’ve never had an undertaker in the church before,’ he said; ’he’s just come, and he ought to be supported.  Now I expect it’s too late, they’ll have gone to Liscombe.’  He rang them up right away, but they had.”