“I think that we were prejudiced against you,” said Vincent thoughtfully—“that is, before we knew you, and perhaps some of us after we had known you. We did not wish to like you; only, you see, we really could not help ourselves,” and the boy looked up archly into the blue eyes that met his gaze so kindly.
“Prejudice,” observed Clemence, “prevents our seeing objects as they actually are.”
“I see, I see,” said Vincent quickly; “prejudices are like the knots in the glass of one of our windows at school. They alter the shape of everything that we choose to look at through them; they make straight things crooked, and nothing distinct—even your face would look quite ugly only seen through that glass.”
“One would not wish to have one’s mind full of such knots,” said Clemence, smiling at the schoolboy’s smile.
“I think that your glass is all rosy-coloured!” cried Vincent, “and that makes you look at every one kindly. But Aunt Selina don’t deserve it of you. Do you know what she said of you once?”
“I have no wish to hear it, dear Vincent.”
“Something about idolatry, which was not at all true; and she said—I did not believe a word of it!—that there is a natural leaning in our hearts toward idolatry. That was downright nonsense, I know. Nobody has idols in England.”
“I wish that I could think so,” replied Clemence.
“What! do you believe that there are any in this country?”
“I fear that there is scarcely a house in it that is really without one. Idols, dear Vincent, are not merely lifeless figures of silver or gold, such as the poor heathen worship; anything, everything that takes the place of God in the heart,—anything, everything that is loved more than Him is an idol, and brings on us the sin of idolatry.”