"Auntie, it isn’t a story book. It is _Science and Health_. I read it every night and morning." "What a very strange book for a little boy to be interested in! The title sounds quite alarmingly dry." "Oh, Auntie, have you never heard of it? It is such a wonderful book. I am beginning to understand it now. At first I could not, but Cousin Alicia used to explain it so beautifully to me, and now I love to read it." "I cannot say I remember the title, dear, but I should like to look into it. Will you spare it to me this evening? I think it is time now for lights to be extinguished." Carol gave the book to her gladly, little thinking it would be many long days before he would see it again. When Mrs. Mandeville returned to the drawing-room, the Rector was there. "Do you know anything of this book, Raymond?" she asked, giving it into his hand. "I found Carol reading it in bed--_Science and Health_." The frown which was habitually on the Rector’s face deepened. "Indeed I do," he said, "and I should like to do with every copy what I am going to do with this." He walked over to the fireplace; his intentions were plain. Mrs. Mandeville caught hold of his arm. "No, no, Raymond, you must not. The book was a present from Miss Desmond to Carol, and you have no right to destroy it, however strongly you may disapprove of his reading it." "I do more than disapprove. I absolutely forbid him to read any more of it; the most unorthodox rubbish that has been published for centuries. The worst of it is, it has taken hold of some people, especially women, and they are carried away by it." The Rector slipped the little book into his pocket. As he had not destroyed it, he meant to make sure there should be no chance of its falling again into Carol’s hands. He, as well as Mrs. Mandeville, was the boy’s legal guardian. Mrs. Mandeville was sorry. She felt sure from the way Carol had spoken that the book was precious to him. Very gently, the next morning, she told him of his uncle’s decision. She noted the quivering lips; the tears he was bravely trying not to shed. "Dear boy, did you value it so much?" she said. "Oh, Auntie!" The simple exclamation expressed more pain and regret than many words could have done. "Darling, I am sorry; but we must believe that Uncle Raymond has good reasons for taking the book away. He says it is fearful heresy. You must not forget that your dear grandfather was a bishop, also your great-grandfather. I could not tell you during how many generations there has always been at least one member of our family a dignitary of the Church." "What does unorthodox mean, Auntie?" "It means contrary to, or opposed to the teachings of our beloved church. Your dear father and mother were both good church people."