“Quite right in moderation, of course,” Churton said.
“And if I loved it then, I love it more than ever now,” Maimie said hurriedly, her chest heaving. “I couldn’t live with dear dear Aunt Marion and Uncle Robert, and not love my Bible.”
Churton looked her all over again, as if he counted her a curiosity.
“That’s the worst of the matter,” he said to himself. “I might have known I was sending her into a hotbed of cant.”
“Father! if you say such things, I’ll not speak to you again.”
I had never seen Maimie in a passion before. It was not her way. She seemed completely upset,—probably from the shock of Churton’s sudden arrival, following close upon a trying afternoon. Churton said, “Hallo!” as if this were a new phase in the character of his “little dove.” My husband stood up, and went to her side.
“Maimie,” he said very low.
She turned and clung to him, with tears and sobs. But the very pressure of his arm seemed at once quieting. A few whispered words were spoken, too low to reach any ears except Maimie’s; while Churton sat looking in astonishment. Then Maimie had conquered her outburst, and stood upright, trembling.
“I was wrong to speak so,” she said. “I was wrong to give way to temper,—about that especially. But, father, please you mustn’t forget that Uncle Robert and Aunt Marion took me in when I had no home and no friends. And though they are poor, they have made me like one of their own children. And I love them—oh, more than I can tell—more than anybody else in the world. It is not cant in this house. It is real real religion.”
“Very pretty gratitude,” Churton said, after a pause, and I could see that he was not pleased. “Positively romantic and touching. I suppose the meaning of all this is, Robert, that you have been at more expense with the girl than you liked. Well, I’m ready to make it up to you. After that, we shall be quits, I suppose. I sent one cheque, and you shall have another.”