"But we could read that at home."
"So we could, my dear; more's the pity as we don't! But there's somewhat in the Book about that—as we ben't to stop going to church."[[3]]
"Where is that, Cicely? I never saw it."
"I haven't a good memory, not for particular words, my dear, and I can't tell you without I had the Book; but 'tis there, certain sure."
Celia had been quietly looking in her little book-case while Cicely was speaking. It contained many things beside books—baskets, pincushions, bottles of Hungary and lavender water, and other heterogeneous articles. But there were about half a dozen books absolutely her own, and one of them was a Bible—a Bible which she very rarely opened, she acknowledged to herself, with a feeling of shame. Looking for it, and bringing it out, she secretly wiped the dust from the covers, and offered it to Cicely.
"Here is one, Cicely; can you show us what you mean?"
"Not in your Book, Mrs. Celia. If I had my own Book, I could. My dear, 'tis choke-full of marks—bits of worsted mostly. I often have it lying open by me when I'm a-darning stockings or some such work, and if I finds a particular nice bit, why, down there goes a bit of worsted into him. Eh! but I have some fine bits marked with them worsted! My dears, if you haven't read the Book you don't know what nice reading there is."
"I think I will read it," said Lucy, gaping.
"You can't without you have glasses, my dear," said Cicely, quietly, finishing off the ruffle.
"Glasses! Why Cicely!" exclaimed Lucy.