"Suppose then, that one of your flock—a simple unlearned woman like myself—should be thrown in with a very learned and eloquent Protestant clergyman, who should strive to draw her into an argument—what would you advise her to do?"
The good priest smiled in spite of himself.
"But suppose I had the best of the argument, would not that convince you?" he asked.
"It would convince me that your Reverence was much more skillful in argument than myself," was the answer; "and I am quite ready to admit that, now."
"But since you do admit that I am more learned than yourself, ought not that to make my arguments of weight to you?"
"Well! I do not know about that. I suppose, your Reverence, that the poor people who thronged to hear St. Peter and St. John, were not nearly so learned as Gamaliel, and the other Pharisees; but they were not greatly influenced by them after all."
Mrs. Thorpe spoke with such respectful frankness, that it was impossible to be offended with her. The priest glanced at us girls, who with eyes demurely cast down, were listening with all our ears, shrugged his shoulders, offered his snuff-box, and gave the matter up. I often thought of this little scene afterwards, when the relations came to be so changed between these two good people. But all this is by the way, and I have wandered far from the thread of my story, which I fear is but a tangle skein at the best.
Amabel and I were sitting, as I said, with a frame between us, finishing a wonderful bit of needle lace, an article for which our house was famous. It was Saturday, and on Monday we were to leave the old house which had been our home so long. We were very silent and sewed with great diligence, for we were desirous of finishing our work, which was destined for some church adornment—I forget what.
Presently Sister Angela appeared at the door and mysteriously beckoned to us.
"What does she want?" said I, pettishly enough. "We shall have no more than enough daylight to finish our work, and we never can do it by lamplight."