Well, is it not the true living after all? Is religion the sacred Sunday thing that must be laid by and not profaned by common every-day uses? Did anyone ever hear of it wearing out? When these people had exchanged thoughts on trials and mercies, faith that could see, and weak faith that stumbled, compared and comforted each other, who shall say it was not as good as a sermon? Why should we not help to lift each other up in our common needs?—Great things come to very few, only.
I lingered for quite a while, resting myself and answering questions about mamma, baby and Mr. Duncan. It was so dreamily pleasant. The sun high over head had found our little nook and was making it all alight with quivering golden rays. Hill seemed to lapse into hill, tree interlaced with tree, nook, corner and ravine added their suggestive tender gloom. People came and went, groups of children rushed in and devoured plates of fragments. They played various games, and at last settled to a tremendous circle of Copenhagen.
“Where is your sister?” asked Winthrop, “I have been hunting everywhere for her. Will you not take a walk with me?”
We had not gone very far before the bell rang.
“The children are to sing their carols now.”
“I suppose you have heard them fifty times?”
“Fifty-one will not surfeit me. Besides, I must look after my class.”
“O, bother! Look after me a little while. I am going back to the city on Saturday, and I shall not see you for ever so long. I actually envy that dolt of a Duncan who is sick at your house. I never met two girls that I liked so well. I don’t see how there is any goodness left for the parish.”
He uttered all this in a rather cross, aggrieved tone which made it sound so comically I could not forbear laughing.
“O, you don’t know—I wonder if I might trust you with—a—secret?”