She knew perfectly well, however, that Nelson would get him, although her brother characteristically did not at once acknowledge his mission.  Alice Whitely had vivid memories of a childhood when he had never failed to get what he wanted; a trait of his of which, although it had before now caused her much discomfort, she was secretly inordinately proud.  She was, therefore, later in the day not greatly surprised to find herself supplying her brother with arguments.  Much as they admired and loved Mr. Hodder, they had always realized that he could not remain buried in Bremerton.  His talents demanded a wider field.

“Talents!” exclaimed Langmaid, “I didn’t know he had any.”

“Oh, Nelson, how can you say such a thing, when you came to get him!” exclaimed his sister.”

“I recommended him because I thought he had none,” Langmaid declared.

“He’ll be a bishop some day—­every one says so,” said Mrs. Whitely, indignantly.

“That reassures me,” said her brother.

“I can’t see why they sent you—­you hardly ever go to church,” she cried.  “I don’t mind telling you, Nelson, that the confidence men place in you is absurd.”

“You’ve said that before,” he replied.  “I agree with you.  I’m not going on my judgment—­but on yours and Gerald’s, because I know that you wouldn’t put up with anything that wasn’t strictly all-wool orthodox.”

“I think you’re irreverent,” said his sister, “and it’s a shame that the canons permit such persons to sit on the vestry . . . .”

“Gerald,” asked Nelson Langmaid of his brother-in-law that night, after his sister and the girls had gone to bed, “are you sure that this young man’s orthodox?”

“He’s been here for over ten years, ever since he left the seminary, and he’s never done or said anything radical yet,” replied the mill owner of Bremerton.  “If you don’t want him, we’d be delighted to have him stay.  We’re not forcing him on you, you know.  What the deuce has got into you?  You’ve talked to him for two hours, and you’ve sat looking at him at the dinner table for another two.  I thought you were a judge of men.”

Nelson Langmaid sat silent.

“I’m only urging Hodder to go for his own good,” Mr. Whitely continued.  “I can take you to dozens of people to-morrow morning who worship him, —­people of all sorts; the cashier in the bank, men in the mills, the hotel clerk, my private stenographer—­he’s built up that little church from nothing at all.  And you may write the Bishop, if you wish.”

“How has he built up the church?” Langmaid demanded

“How?  How does any clergyman buildup a church

“I don’t know,” Langmaid confessed.  “It strikes me as quite a tour de force in these days.  Does he manage to arouse enthusiasm for orthodox Christianity?”

“Well,” said Gerard Whitely, “I think the service appeals.  We’ve made it as beautiful as possible.  And then Mr. Hodder goes to see these people and sits up with them, and they tell him their troubles.  He’s reformed one or two rather bad cases.  I suppose it’s the man’s personality.”