"Children, what are you doing?" asked Mistress Davis, coming up stairs. "'Tis time you wore abed, and asleep."
"There it goes," muttered Philippa. "Always interfering."
"Philippa came to borrow a book," said I.
"Oh, very well. There is no harm done. Good-night."
"Here is the book," said I, producing it; "only please be careful—" For she took it in a very heedless way by one cover. "It is very dear to me, because our mother gave it me a present from her own hand, and there are some of her paintings in it."
Philippa instantly laid the volume on the table. "I will not take it if you are so dreadfully afraid of it," said she. "I did not guess I was asking such a favor. But that is always the way. One would think that I did nothing else but spoil things. I don't want the book if you are afraid of my spoiling it by only looking at it."
I suppose she thought I was going to urge it upon her, but she was mistaken. My own temper was up by that time, and I quietly turned from her, took the book and laid it away, and bidding her a short good-night, I shut the door.
I sat a few minutes by the open casement to cool my face and also my spirit, and then I said my prayers and went to bed. It was all saying prayers at that time. The words never went deeper than my lips, or at most I thought of them as a sort of charm, the repeating whereof might propitiate some unknown power and save us from some unknown danger. I don't say this is the case with all Roman Catholics by any means, but I know it is with a great many. They gabble over their rosary with no more devotion than a village child goes over the criss-cross row *, or the pence table and from much the same motive, because they expect to be beaten if they do not know their lesson.
*The criss-cross row is the alphabet, always preceded in the old primers and horn books by a cross. Few people who use the word are aware of its origin.
