Yet, while the little scarred cheek was resting on her ermine in such apparent bliss, there mingled in with the thread of her instructions to the children a determination next day to appraise cheap furs, and see if she could not bless the little one with a cape of her very own.
Angie's quiet common sense always stood her in good stead in moderating her enthusiasms, and even carried her at times to the length of differing with the rector, to whom she looked up as an angel guide. For example, when he had expatiated on the propriety and superior sanctity of coming fasting to the holy communion, sensible Angie had demurred.
"I must teach my class," she pleaded with herself, "and if I should go all that long way up to church without my breakfast, I should have such a sick-headache that I couldn't do anything properly for them. I'm always cross and stupid when that comes on."
Thus Angie concluded by her own little light, in her own separate way, that "to do good was better than sacrifice." Nevertheless, she supposed all this was because she was so low down in the moral scale, for did not Mr. St. John fast?—doubtless it gave him headache, but he was so good he went on just as well with a headache as without—and Angie felt how far she must rise to be like that.
"There now," said Jim Fellows, triumphantly, to Alice, as they were coming home, "didn't you see your angel of the churches looking in a certain direction this morning?"
Alice had, as a last resort, a fund of reserved dignity which she could draw upon whenever she was really and deeply in earnest.
"Jim," she said, without a smile, and in a grave tone, "I have confidence that you are a true friend to us all."
"Well, I hope so," said Jim, wonderingly.
"And you are too kind-hearted and considerate to wish to give real pain."