He coughed again and turned to his paper, and so, for the first time in her life, Bonnie May was in a fair way of going to Sunday-school.
Victor didn’t approve of the idea at all, when it was presently made known to him. He waylaid his mother in the dining-room at a time when there was no one else about.
“Why not wait until she can get some things?” he asked.
“Victor,” replied Mrs. Baron, holding her head very high, “you’re assuming that that extraordinary little creature is going to stay here. I assure you, she’s not. This may be the only chance she’ll ever have to place herself in the way of a helpful influence on Sunday. She’s going to Sunday-school to-day.”
“Governess,” responded Victor, smiling steadily, “if you don’t quit getting angry with me I mean to sue for separate maintenance. Mark my words.” After which nothing more was said on the subject.
Victor betook himself to the library, however, and indulged in a moment of fidgeting. Breakers were ahead—that was certain.
It was forcing things, anyway. He took down his Emerson and turned to a passage which his mother long ago had pronounced a thing holding low heathen sentiments. He read:
“And why drag this dead weight of a Sunday-school over the whole of Christendom? It is beautiful and natural that children should inquire and maturity should teach, but it is time enough to answer questions when they are asked. Do not shut up the young people against their will in a pew and force the children to ask them questions against their will.”
He could not dismiss from his mind the picture of Bonnie May asking questions in her elfin yet penetrating way, and he realized that the answers she would get in that place of ordered forms and conventions might be very far from satisfactory to one of her somewhat fearful frankness and honesty.
But suddenly he smiled at the pictures he was drawing in his mind. “She seems pretty well able to take care of herself,” he concluded.