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“’Lay not up for yourselves treasures of the earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.”
    As he spoke, his glance rested in turn for a mere second each on the stubborn, petulant face of Reece Vishonn; on the stoic face of Ira Granby; on the tired, ironic face of Ralph Cullis. All three planters owned large tracts of land west of the Blue Ridge, bought years ago in speculative greed. His Majesty’s recent proclamation rendered title to those lands nugatory. That was justice, mused the pastor, and God’s justice, at that. Reece Vishonn, among all the planters in the county, stood to lose the most. This man had shown him the least sympathy when the Two-Penny Act was passed by the General Assembly, reducing the reverend’s salary. This man, the most powerful voice among Stepney Parish’s vestrymen, had more orless told him to be satisfied or be gone. This man, among all the men who sat on the county court, had blocked his initial moves to sue the parish for back pay, by persuading his fellow justices, on one hand, to recognize the Crown’s disallowance of the Act, and, on the other, by assuring the pastor that a suit would mean years of costly litigation and the expenditure of more than the pastor had then or could ever hope to recover.
    Reverend Acland had heard the grumblings of the planters over the proclamation. He took some satisfaction in the knowledge that they could neither settle those lands nor clear them, nor survey them, nor exploit them in any manner, except at the risk of armed conflict with either the Indians or the army. Nor could they sell those lands now, except to Crown agents, on Crown terms. Nor could they escape to them, except at peril of torture, death, and even slavery at the hands of the Indians, or eviction and fines by the Crown.
    This morning, Reverend Acland felt emboldened to remind them all of their duties — of their Christian duties, and of their duty to obey the king. Religion, to the pastor, long ago became not so much a creed of personal salvation as an invaluable tool of vengeance on those who seemed to be more successful in living than he. His regular exhortations for humility, modesty, and states of grace in the eyes of the Lord disguised a malice which most of his congregation mistook for earnest righteousness.
    Etáin McRae, later that morning over breakfast in the modest house that stood in back of her father’s store, startled her parents with the observation, “If we are not to care about treasures of the earth, we should all become poor, and so have neither house nor clothes nor the means to support a church. There would be no church. Are not our treasures responsible for Reverend Acland’s pulpit and fine vestments?”
    Ian and Madeline McRae stared at their daughter, and were at a loss to answer. After a moment, Ian McRae cleared his throat and said, “Many teachings of the Church should not be taken literally, Etáin. They are exempt from logic.”
    Etáin frowned. “‘Thou shalt not do murder’ — that is plain enough,” she said, oblivious to her parents’ surprise. “And, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Though I do not believe a bishop would be able to explain to me why they are right commandments.” The girl paused to rest her chin on a hand. “But what Pastor Acland said this morning, that was sophistry. If he meant it, then he should vacate his own house, and go about in rags, beg for food, and preach on people’s doorsteps. What he said this morning, I thought wasvindictive. He is a hypocrite. I think all ministers are hypocrites, whether they are English churchmen or wandering divines.”
    Madeline McRae, more cosmopolitan and worldly than any other woman in Caxton, could only reply, with a stern but gentle urgency, “Etáin, that is enough.”
    Ian McRae’s mind simply