"I wish you would talk sense," said Miss Cunningham, sharply; "I can't understand a word you say."
"I know what I mean myself, though I cannot explain it. On Sunday people never work, or ride about, or read the same books as they do on other days—at least mamma never lets me do it; and she makes me say my Catechism, and other things like it—hymns, I mean, and collects."
"That may be your fashion on a Sunday, but it is not mine," said Miss Cunningham. "I used to say my Catechism once a month before I was confirmed, to get it perfect; but since then I have never thought about it."
"Have you been confirmed?" asked Margaret and Amy, in one breath.
"Yes, to be sure. I am quite old enough; I was fifteen last month."
"Then you must feel quite grown up now," said Amy.
"Grown up! why should I? I shall not do that till I come out in London."
"Shall you not?" said Amy, gravely. "I think I should feel quite grown up if I were confirmed."
"I never heard any one yet call a girl only just fifteen grown up," observed Margaret.
"It is not what I should be called, but what I should feel," replied Amy. "People, when they are confirmed, are allowed to do things that they must not before." And as she said this, she walked away, as if afraid of being obliged to explain herself more, and went to the lower end of the chapel to look at her favourite monument of the first baron of Emmerton.