“You need a new building,” observed Mr. Worcester, with that quiet way of putting a startling thing which was another Worcester quality. “You seem to have made--from your own point of view, of course--what any man of affairs would call a success here. Of course, you understand, Manuel, that I cannot approve of your course. It has been the greatest grief of my life.” Bayard hastened to observe that his comprehension of this point was not limited. “From _your_ point of view, not mine, Manuel, I should, as a man of business, suggest that a new building--your own property--something to impress business men, you know; something to give material form to that--undoubtedly sincere and--however mistaken--unselfish, religious effort that you have wasted in this freezing hole.... I wonder, Manuel, if you could put the draughts on that confounded box-burner with the angel atop? I don’t know when I’ve been so chilly!” Bayard hastened to obey this request, without intimating that the draughts were closed to save the coal. This species of political economy was quite outside of his uncle’s experience, and yet, perhaps, the man of business had more imagination than his nephew gave him credit for; he said abruptly:-- “Look here, Manuel, I’ve got to get the seven o’clock train home, you know, and I’d best do the errand I came on, at once. You know those old Virginia mines of your mother’s? There was a little stock there, you remember? It went below zero. Hasn’t been heard of for twenty years. But it remained on the inventory of the estate, you know. Well, it’s come up. There’s a new plant gone in--Northern enterprise, you know--and the stock is on the market again. There is only a trifle, a paltry two thousand, if well handled. It’s yours, you see, whatever there is of it. I came down to ask if you would like to have me force a sale for you.” “Two thousand dollars!” cried Bayard, turning pale. “Why, it would almost build me--at least, it would furnish a new chapel. We had about so much of inside property--library, piano, pictures, settees, hymn-books, and all that--it is all a dead loss. Unfortunately, Mr. Bond had never insured it--we were so poor; every dollar tells!” “Then he was a very bad man of business for a church--for a--missionary officer!” cried Mr. Worcester irritably; “and I hope you’ll do nothing of the kind. You could spend that amount on your personal necessities inside of six months, and then not know it, sir! You are--I hope, Manuel,” sternly, “that you will regard my wish, for once, in one respect, before I die. Don’t fling your mother’s money into the bottomless pit of this unendowed, burnt-out, unpopular enterprise! Wait awhile, Manuel. Wait a little and think it over. I don’t think, under the circumstances,” added Mr. Worcester with some genuine dignity, “that it is very much to ask.” “Perhaps it is not,” replied Bayard thoughtfully. “At least, I will consider it, as you say.”