"Don't you know what Amy means?" asked Margaret, laughing; "people never tack on surnames to Christian names till they are so angry they don't know what else to do. But don't make yourself unhappy, Amy; I know mamma better than you do; she soon forgets—just let me know what she said."
The story was soon told, and Amy's mind considerably eased by her cousin's assurance that she had got into a hundred such scrapes in her life; though there still remained such a recollection of her alarm, that even the quiet beauty of the chapel could not entirely soothe her. Miss Cunningham looked round with curiosity, but with a total want of interest; and Margaret laughed, and said it was a gloomy old place, and then called to her companions to observe the strange little figures which were carved on an ancient monument near the altar, declaring they were the most absurd things she had ever seen. But she could only induce Miss Cunningham to join in the merriment; Amy just smiled, and said, in rather a subdued voice, that they were odd, and she had often wondered at them before.
"What is the matter, Amy?" asked Margaret. "Why don't you speak out; and why are you so grave!"
"I don't quite know," answered Amy, trying to raise her voice; "but I never can laugh or speak loud in a church."
"And why not?" said Miss Cunningham, who had been patting one of the figures with her parasol, and calling it a "little wretch."
"Because," replied Amy, "it is a place where people come to say their prayers and read their Bibles."
"Well! and so they say their prayers and read their Bibles in their bedrooms," observed Margaret; "and yet you would not mind laughing there."
Amy thought for a moment, and then said, "You know bedrooms are never consecrated."
"Consecrated!" repeated Miss Cunningham, her eyes opening to their fullest extent; "What has that to do with it?"
"I don't know that I can quite tell," replied Amy; "but I believe it means making places like Sundays."