For some reason he would have been loath to analyze, even to himself, it was to Catie that Scott first announced his change of plan. Catie took the announcement tranquilly. To her mind, religion was something that one put on, together with one's Sunday hat. There was no reason one of them should be unchanging in form more than the other. One's theology, like one's brims, should broaden with the fashion; the forms of worship might as well grow high as the outline of one's hat-crown. Given the three main elements of best clothes, a Sunday on which to wear them and an appreciative church to wear them in, and Catie asked no further consolations of religion. The tolerance Scott liked, although he deplored the cause. "Lovely, Scott!" Catie said, with some enthusiasm, when at last she had grasped in its entirety, not Scott's idea, but the outward form in which it clothed itself. "You'll wear a surplice, then, and a purple stripe around your neck, and sing the prayers, like the man I saw in Boston. He had candles, too, burning at the back, beside a great brass cross." Scott shook his head in swift negation. As yet, the higher forms of ritualism were totally unknown to him. "That's Catholic, Catie," he reminded her. "Of course, I sha'n't do that." "No; 'twas Episcopal," she contradicted. "It said so, on a sign beside the door. But, Scott, that makes me think--" "Well?" he asked, wondering at her hesitation. "Would you mind very much," she came forward to his side and fell to fingering the top button of his coat caressingly; "would you mind it so very much not to call me Catie any more?" Absorbed as he was in his theological transference, he had felt sure that her request was on that selfsame theme, the more so, even, by reason of her unwonted hesitation. In his extreme surprise, he laughed a little at her question. "Why not, Catie?" She held up a forefinger of arch admonition. "There you go again!" she told him, with mock petulance. "Do listen to me, Scott. You're so interested in your everlasting old churches that you haven't an idea to spare for me. I want you to promise that you won't ever call me Catie any more." "But why? What shall I call you?" he inquired, with masculine and dazed bluntness. "Catia. It is ever so much prettier; Catie is so babyish," she urged him. "But, if it is your name?" he urged in return. Her retort came with unexpected pith and promptness. Moreover, it struck home. "So is the Baptist your church," she answered pertly. "I guess I have a right to change, as well as you."