Polly and Roger Trent always looked forward with the greatest pleasure to Sunday, for they generally spent the afternoon of that day in their father's company. If the weather was fine he took them for a long walk in the country, past the clay works which lay directly on the outskirts of Beaworthy, to the beautiful lanes and woods beyond; if, on the contrary, it was wet and they were obliged to remain in the house, he read to them or told them stories. In that way they had become familiar with Bible history before they could read themselves; and at a little later date they had listened to the entrancing history of "The Pilgrim's Progress." They had followed Christian's journey with all its dangers and difficulties along the King's highway right onward to the celestial city; they had gloried in the fight between Christian and Apollyon in the valley of Humiliation, and had insisted every time their father had recounted it to them of a minute description of the fiend—the monster hideous to behold, clothed with scales like a fish, and wings like a dragon, and feet like a horse, and a mouth like a lion! And they had shed bitter tears over the martyrdom of Faithful, though they had never failed to brighten at the account of the chariot and horses which had borne him with the sound of trumpet through the clouds to the celestial gate into the presence of the King in His beauty.
"I hate Sundays," Edgar Marsh had told Roger on one occasion, much to the latter's surprise; "it's such a stupid day. I go to church with mother and father in the morning, I don't mind that; but in the afternoon I never know what to do with myself: father generally shuts himself up in his study and tells me not to bother him—I suppose he goes to sleep—and mother reads in the drawing-room. Don't you hate Sundays, too?"
"No, indeed!" Roger had answered; and then he had told a great deal about the delightful Sunday afternoons he was in the habit of spending, and Edgar had listened more than a little enviously.
The afternoon following Roger's visit to the Rookery found Edgar in a very discontented state of mind. As usual, his father had betaken himself to his study, and his mother had settled herself comfortably in an easy chair near the drawing-room fire, a book of sermons in her hand. The little boy, standing disconsolately by the window, looking out on the velvety lawn, the grass of which was beginning to spring fresh and green, was debating how he should pass the two hours which must elapse before tea-time, when Mrs. Marsh inquired:
"Why do you not take a book and read, my dear? There are some very pretty stories suitable for Sunday reading in that book I gave you for a New Year's present."
"I hate reading," was the ill-tempered response, "especially babyish stories; and I hate Sundays—"
"It's very naughty of you to say so," Mrs. Marsh interposed reprovingly, shaking her head at him.
"I do hate Sundays," he persisted, "because I never know what to do, and you won't let me play. Uncle Martin takes Polly and Roger for walks on Sunday afternoons, or tells them stories—stories with some sense in them. I wish my father was like Uncle Martin; but father never goes for walks or—"
"You must remember he is an older man than your uncle," Mrs. Marsh broke in quickly, "and he is so wrapped up in business affairs that he has little time to spare for anything else."
"But he doesn't do business on Sunday, mother."