Another bugbear of Marjory's was the little bag which Lisbeth always insisted upon her carrying. Everybody had a bag for their books, she said, so Marjory must have one too; and Sunday after Sunday in they went, with a clean handkerchief and, it must be confessed, a sweetie. These sweeties were kept in a bottle in the study, of all places. It was never allowed to get empty, and Marjory often wondered if the doctor took them to church too. There was a certain moment, when the congregation was settling itself to listen to the sermon and there was a general rustling of clothes and clattering of feet, when the sweetie found its way to Marjory's mouth. She would begin by determining to make it last as long as the sermon, but, alas! it would become thinner and thinner, and finally disappear altogether before Mr. Mackenzie had got to "thirdly."
Besides the drawbacks of the best clothes and the bag there were usually many admonitions from her uncle, such as, "Marjory, turn out your toes. Hold up your head, child. Turn out your toes, I say," or, "O Marjory, do not swing that bag"—all very necessary, no doubt, but they had the effect of making the girl self-conscious. Thinking about her head, she would forget about her toes, and vice versâ, and her uncle would be apt to think that it was obstinacy on her part and to tell her so, and then there would be sullen silence till the church door was reached. But to-day it was not so. Half-way to church they joined the Foresters, and Marjory and Blanche walked together behind their elders, so that their deportment could not be criticised.
Blanche gave Marjory the cheerful news that as there was to be a children's service in the afternoon, Mrs. Forester was going to beg for Marjory to be let off writing the morning sermon if she wrote the afternoon one instead.
"I don't suppose uncle will say yes, though," objected Marjory.
"Oh yes, he will; people always do to mother."
"How different it would be!" sighed Marjory. "I'm sure I could understand it better if I didn't have to keep thinking about writing it out."
"And mother's going to ask Dr. Hunter to come to tea, and you will come home from church with us. Won't it be nice?"
"Yes; but I don't believe he will let me." Blanche's face clouded. "Oh," she said, disappointment in her tone, "why not?"
"I've never been out anywhere on Sunday."
"But this is different—it isn't like going to a party; and we have such nice Sundays, and I do want you to come. I love Sundays, and I always look forward to them; don't you?"