Nancy did not go to church. She practiced an easy tolerance. Her people
had been, originally, Quakers. In later years they had turned to
Unitarianism. And now in this generation, Nancy, as well as Anthony
Peak, had thrown off the shackles of religious observance.
"But it is worth having the churches just for the bells," Nancy conceded
on Sunday mornings when their music rang out from belfry and tower.
It was worth having the churches for more than the bells. But it was
useless to argue with Nancy. Her morals and Anthony's were
irreproachable. That is, from the modern point of view. They played
cards for small stakes, drank when they pleased, and, as I have
indicated, Nancy smoked. She was, also, not unkissed when Anthony asked
her to marry him. These were not the ideals of my girlhood, but Anthony
and Nancy felt that such small vices as they cultivated saved them from
the narrow-mindedness of their forebears.
"Anthony and I are going for a walk," she said. "I will bring you some
flowers for your bowls, Elizabeth."
It was just then that the yacht steamed into the harbor--majestically,
like a slow-moving swan. I picked out the name with my sea-glasses, _The
Viking_.