A Red Wallflower

'Money is a good dog.'

'A good what?'

'A good servant, sir, I should say. You may see a case occasionally where it has got to be the master.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'A man unable to be anything and spoiled for doing anything worth while, because he has so much of it; a man whose property is so large that he has come to look upon money as the first thing.'

'It is the first thing and the last thing, I can tell you. Without it, a man has to play second fiddle to somebody else all his life.'

'Do you think there is no independence but that of the purse, sir?'

'Beggarly little use in any other kind. In fact, there is not any other kind, Pitt. What passes for it is just fancy, and struggling to make believe. The really independent man is the man who need not ask anybody else's leave to do anything.'

Pitt let the question drop, and went on with his breakfast, for which he seemed to have a good appetite.

'Your muffins are as good as ever, mother,' he remarked.

Mrs. Dallas, to judge by her face, found nothing in this world so pleasant as to see Pitt eat his breakfast, and nothing in the world so important to do as to furnish him with satisfactory material. Yet she was not a foolish woman, and preserved all the time her somewhat stately presence and manner; it was in little actions and words now and then that this care for her son's indulgence and delight in it made itself manifest. It was manifest enough to the two who sat at breakfast with her; Mr. Dallas observing it with a secret smile, his son with a grateful swelling of the heart, which a glance and a word sometimes conveyed to his mother. Mrs. Dallas's contentment this morning was absolute and unqualified. There could be no doubt what Betty Frere would think, she said to herself. Every quality that ought to grace a young man, she thought she saw embodied before her. The broad brow, and the straight eyebrow, and the firm lips, expressed what was congenial to Mrs. Dallas's soul; a mingling of intelligence and will, well defined, clear and strong; but also sweet. There was thoughtfulness but no shadow in the fine hazel eyes; no cloud on the brow; and the smile when it came was frank and affectionate. His manner pleased Mrs. Dallas infinitely; it had all the finish of the best breeding, and she was able to recognise this.

'What are you going to be, Pitt?' his father broke in upon some laughing talk that was going on between mother and son.

'To be, sir? I beg your pardon!'

'After you have done with Oxford, or with your college course. You know I intend you to study for a profession. Which profession would you choose?'

Pitt was silent.

'Have you ever thought about it?'

'Yes, sir. I have thought about it.'

'What conclusion did you come to?'

'To none, yet,' the young man answered slowly. 'It must depend.'

'On what?

'Partly, – on what conclusion I come to respecting something else,' Pitt went on in the same manner, which immediately fastened his mother's attention.

'Perhaps you will go on and explain yourself,' said his father. 'It is good that we should understand one another.'

Yet Pitt was silent.

'Is it anything private and secret?' his father asked, half laughing, although with a touch of sharp curiosity in his look.

'Private – not secret,' Pitt answered thoughtfully, too busy with his own thoughts to regard his father's manner. 'At least the conclusion cannot be secret.'

'It might do no harm to discuss the subject,' said his father, still lightly.

'I cannot see how it would do any good. It is my own affair. And I thought it might be better to wait till the conclusion was reached. However, that may not be for some time; and if you wish' —

'We wish to share in whatever is interesting you, Pitt,' his mother said gently.

'Yes, mother, but at present things are not in any order to please you.

You had better wait till I see daylight.'

'Is it a question of marriage?' asked his father suddenly.

'No, sir.'

'A question of Uncle Strahan's wishes?' suggested Mrs. Dallas.

'No, mother.' And then with a little hesitation he went on: 'I have been thinking merely what master I would serve. Upon that would depend, in part, what service I would do; – of course.'

'What master? Mars or Minerva, to wit? or possibly Apollo? Or what was the god who was supposed to preside over the administration of justice? I forget.'

'No, sir. My question was broader.'

'Broader!'

'It was, briefly, the question whether I would serve God or Mammon.'

'I profess I do not understand you now!' said his father.

'You are aware, sir, the world is divided on that question; making two parties. Before going any farther, I had a mind to determine to which of them I would belong. How can a navigator lay his course, unless he knows his goal?'

'But, my boy,' said his mother, now anxiously and perplexedly, 'what do you mean?'

'It amounts to the question, whether I would be a Christian, mother.'

Mr. Dallas slued his chair round, so as to bring his face somewhat out of sight; Mrs. Dallas, obeying the same instinctive impulse, kept hers hidden behind the screen of her coffee-urn, for she would not her son should see in it the effect of his words. Her answer, however, was instantaneous:

'But, my dear, you are a Christian.'

'Am I? Since when, mother?'

'Pitt, you were baptized in infancy, – you were baptized by that good and excellent Bishop Downing, as good a man, and as holy, as ever was consecrated, here or anywhere. He baptized you before you were two months old. That made you a Christian, my boy.'

'What sort of a one, mother?'

'Why, my dear, you were taught your catechism. Have you forgotten it? In baptism you were made "a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven." You have learned those words, often enough, and said them over.'

'That will do to talk about, mother,' said Pitt slowly; 'but in what sense is it true?'

'My dear! – in every sense. How can you ask? It is part of the