'Ah! some of our best children are gone to St. Austin's,' said Elizabeth; 'I quite grudge them to Mr. Somerville; I hate the girls to get out of my sight.'
'So do I,' said Anne, 'I am quite angry when our girls go out to service, they will get such horrid places—public houses, or at best farm houses, where they have a whole train of babies to look after, and never go to church.'
'And very few of the most respectable fathers and mothers care where their children go to service,' said Elizabeth; 'I am sure I often wish the children had no parents.'
'In order that they may learn a child's first duty?' said Lady Merton.
'Well, but is it not vexatious, Aunt Anne,' said Elizabeth, 'when there is a nice little girl learning very well in school, but forgetting as soon as she is out of it, her mother will not put herself one inch out of the way to keep her there regularly; when the child goes to church continually, the mother never comes at all, or never kneels down when she is there. If you miss her at school on the Sunday morning, her mother has sent her to the shop, and perhaps told her to tell a falsehood about it; if her hand is clammy with lollipops, or there is a perfume of peppermint all round her, or down clatters a halfpenny in the middle of church, it is all her father's fault.'
'Oh! except the clatter, that last disaster never happens with us,' said Anne; 'the shop is not open on Sunday.'
'Ah! that is because Uncle Edward is happily the king of the parish,' said Elizabeth; 'it has the proper Church and State government, like Dante's notion of the Empire. But you cannot help the rest; and we are still worse off, and how can we expect the children to turn out well with such home treatment?'
'No, Lizzie,' said Lady Merton; 'you must not expect them to turn out well.'
'O Mamma! Mamma!' cried Anne.
'What do you teach them for?' exclaimed Helen.