"I am sorry for you," replied the other, "but I believe that you can see, Laura, as well as I can; you mean you will not trouble yourself, or that you are idle to-night."
"And what if I do? I hate those horrid hymn sort of tunes; they will not be of any use to me."
"Silence!" uttered the voice of Lenhart Davy. There was seldom occasion for him to say so, but just now there had been a pause before we repeated the first movement of the anthem.
He told me he had a little leisure that evening, and would take me home. I was enchanted, and fully meant to ask him to come in with me; but I actually forgot it until after he had turned away. Margareth reproved me very seriously; "Your sisters would have asked him in, Master Charles, to supper." But the fact was, I had been occupied with my own world too much. I had said to him directly we were in the street, "Dear Mr. Davy, who are those two girls whose seats are the nearest to mine?"
"They belong to the class like yourself, as you perceive, but they are not persons you would be likely to meet anywhere else."
"Why not, sir? I should like to be friends with all the singers."
Davy smiled. "So you may be, in singing, and, I hope, will be; but they are not all companions for you out of the class. You know that very well."
"I suppose, sir, you mean that some are poorer than we are, some not so well brought up, some too old, and all that?"
"I did, certainly; but not only so. You had better not make too many friends at your time of life,—rather too few than too many. Ask your mother if I am not correct. You see, she has a right to expect that you should love home best at present."
"I always should love home best," I answered quickly; and I remember well how Davy sighed.