“Where’s the difference between Sundays in London and Sundays in the country?” asked Vincent.
Here was an opening for pleasant, familiar converse, and Clemence was not slow in availing herself of it. She talked of her school at Stoneby; gave interesting anecdotes of her girls; told of an aged, bed-ridden woman, who loved to receive a call every Sunday afternoon, always expecting that her visitor would repeat to her the leading points in the morning’s sermon. Greatly had Clemence missed her accustomed Sabbath labours of love, her husband having decidedly objected to her undertaking any such in the great metropolis. It was sweet to her now to recall them; and in Vincent, who was thoroughly weary of his own society, she found a willing listener.
“I can fancy that it must be pleasant going to the cottages, where every one is glad to see you,” said the boy; “but then there are the long, tiresome evenings, especially during the winter; how did you manage to get over them?”
“I sang hymns, and read a good deal.”
“Oh, but Sunday books are so dull.”
“Do you think so? I find some so interesting.”
“I never saw one yet which did not set me yawning before I had got through half a page.”
Clemence went to the book-case without replying, and returning with a volume of the “History of the Reformation,” resumed her seat by Vincent. “Would you like to hear a story?” she said, after turning to an interesting passage in the life of Luther.
“A story, yes; but I don’t want a sermon.”
Clemence read with animation and expression, and Vincent speedily became interested. The history naturally led to questions from the intelligent boy, which his step-mother readily answered. He was unconsciously drinking in information upon one of the most important of subjects.