But still weeping, she waved the picture in melancholy confirmation of her assertion. Arthur was amused and perplexed.
“My dear aunt, what has put such a droll idea into your head?”
“Because—because,” said Aunt Winnifred, sobbing and wiping her eyes, “because this picture, which you keep locked up so carefully, is a picture of the Holy Virgin. Oh dear! just to think of it!”
There was a fresh burst of feeling from the honest and affectionate woman, who felt that to be a Roman Catholic was to be visibly sealed and stamped for eternal woe. But there was an answering burst of laughter from Arthur, who staggered to a sofa, and lay upon his back shouting until the tears also rolled from his eyes.
His aunt stopped, appalled, and made up her mind that he was not only a Catholic but a madman. Then, as Arthur grew more composed, he and his aunt looked at each other for some moments in silence.
“Aunt, you are right. It is the Holy Virgin!”
“Oh! Arthur,” she groaned.
“It is my Madonna!”
“Poor boy!” sighed she.
“It is the face I worship.”