On the third Sunday after the arrival at New Plymouth she announced that she was not going to church.
"I don't want to, either," whispered Emmie. "Let's pertend we're very ill."
"No; let's just say we won't go."
"Better not," admonished the cautious Emmie. "I think my throat is going to be sore."
So Emmie was duly cosseted by Aunt Jerusha, and given delicious black-currant jelly.
Mrs. Gano, hearing rumors of rebellion, had sent for Val. She was dressed and sitting in the big arm-chair before the fire with a book on her knees. It was quite warm, but she couldn't apparently do without a fire and a shawl. She was seldom seen about the house in these days without a shawl. She must have had hundreds—white and black and gray, striped and dotted; silk, cashmere, canton-crêpe. Her gowns all seemed to be made of rusty black silk. They were so exactly alike that Val thought for long she had but one. There was always, too, the inevitable and spotless lawn at the throat; no frivolous ruffle or after-thought of tie—nothing set on, extraneous, but smooth white folds that seemed to grow up out of the dress—an integral part of the plain and changeless uniform that was the outward and visible sign of one's grandmother's severe, uncompromising spirit.
"What's this I hear? Why are you not dressing for church?"
"I—I don't feel like going to-day."
"Are you not well?"