"But do you think that it is—very wicked—to get so tired on Sunday?" asked Lucy, slowly, as if she were half afraid of bringing her thoughts to light. "For I do get dreadfully tired, Celia. Sermons, endless sermons all day long! for, as if the sermon in church were not enough, Father must needs read another at home on Sunday nights! Celia, do you think it is very wrong to get tired of sermons?"
"I suppose," said Celia, thoughtfully, "that must depend on the sort of sermon."
"I never seem to get a chance of hearing any sort but one," said Lucy; "and I can't understand them."
"Well, Lucy, it is not pleasant to be obliged to sit still and listen to what you do not understand," Celia admitted.
"Oh, I get so tired!" said Lucy, flinging herself on another part of the bed, as if the very thought of the coming Sunday fatigued her. "Don't take the light away just yet, Celia."
"No, dear; I have my clean ruffles to sew on for to-morrow," answered Celia, sitting down to her work.
"Celia, do you understand Dr. Braithwaite's sermons?"
"Not always. Remember what a learned man he is, Lucy; we must not expect very wise men to talk like you and me."
"I wish he did not know quite so much, then," said Lucy. "I could understand him if he would talk like you."
"Aught I can do for you, Mrs. Celia, my dear?" asked old Cicely, looking in. "Prithee give me those ruffles. You have been sewing all day."