“About two years. But I've got to study a heap yet.”
“The little birds don't think it necessary to study to praise Him,” said the preacher sententiously.
It occurred to Cissy that this was very unfair argument. She said quickly:—
“But the little birds don't have to follow words in the hymn-books. You don't give out lines to larks and bobolinks,” and blushed.
The preacher smiled. It was a very engaging smile, Cissy thought, that lightened his hard mouth. It enabled her to take heart of grace, and presently to chatter like the very birds she had disparaged. Oh yes; she knew she had to learn a great deal more. She had studied “some” already. She was taking lessons over at Point Concepcion, where her aunt had friends, and she went three times a week. The gentleman who taught her was not a Catholic, and, of course, he knew she was a Protestant. She would have preferred to live there, but her mother and father were both dead, and had left her with her aunt. She liked it better because it was sunnier and brighter there. She loved the sun and warmth. She had listened to what he had said about the dampness and gloom of the chapel. It was true. The dampness was that dreadful sometimes it just ruined her clothes, and even made her hoarse. Did he think they would really take his advice and clear out the woods round the chapel?
“Would you like it?” he asked pleasantly.
“Yes.”
“And you think you wouldn't pine so much for the sunshine and warmth of the Mission?
“I'm not pining,” said Cissy with a toss of her curls, “for anything or anybody; but I think the woods ought to be cleared out. It's just as it was when the runaways hid there.”
“When the RUNAWAYS HID THERE!” said Brother Seabright quickly. “What runaways?”