"But she's not your race," William Ammidon muttered; "she is a Confucian
or Taoist, or some such thing."

"You're Unitarian one day a week, and father is Congregational, Hodie's
a Methodist, and no one knows what I am," Gerrit cried. "Good God, what
does all that matter! Isn't a religion a religion? Do you suppose a
Lord worth the name would be anything but entertained by such spiteful
little dogmas. A sincere greased nigger with his voodoo must be as good
as any of us."

"That is too strong, Gerrit," Jeremy objected. "You'll get nowhere crying
down Christianity."

"If I could find it," the younger declared bitterly, "I'd feel
differently. It's right enough in the Bible. ...Well, we'll go on to
Boston to-morrow."

"This is your home," his father repeated. "Naturally William, all of us
have been disturbed; but nothing beyond that. I trust we are a loyal
family. What you've done can't be mended with hard words."

"She may become very fashionable," Gerrit mockingly told his
brother. "It'll be a blow to Camilla," Jeremy chuckled. "Some rice
must be cooked."

"Manchus don't live on rice," Gerrit replied. "They don't bind the
feet either nor wear the common Chinese clothes. Rhoda will
understand better."