"No! no! I hate the mill. It looks so rough and bare, and the girls all seem so common. I feel like crying to have to spend so many hours there."
"And then you can't do your work well. I know just how that feels. Miss Eunice says it isn't honest to do anything that will unfit us for the work we are paid for doing."
This was a new definition of dishonesty to Tessa, but she only said:—
"Who's Miss Eunice?"
"Oh, she's the teacher of the Bible-class; the nicest, most splendid lady in the Sunday-school, except, of course, Miss Etta. She's our teacher, you know, but she's so young she seems just like one of ourselves."
"Do you go to Sunday-school?" said Tessa opening her eyes. "I thought only little children went. Father said it was so in Italy."
"But everybody goes here. There's great big girls, quite young women, in Miss Eunice's class. Tessa," said Katie, struck with a sudden idea, "what do you do with yourself on Sundays?"
"I read," said the person addressed; "read all day long. I lie on the bed in my room, and forget how hot it is and how lonely, and then when it gets dark I remember beautiful Italy and cry."
"What a lonely life," said Katie, sympathetically. "Why don't you go to church?"
"We never went to church, my father and I. He said the church had ruined Italy, and he was not a Catholic any more."