“But Patty, it’s heathen idolatry, worshipping the Virgin Mary. The Virgin Mary was just a woman like you and me.”
“Well, dear, what does it matter? Perhaps Jane doesn’t worship her in a heathen spirit, do you, Jane?”
“No, Aunt, I’m afraid I don’t worship her at all.”
“But think of the Jesuits,” wailed Aunt Beth.
“I don’t,” snapped Aunt Patty.
“Patty, I believe you’re in danger of losing your faith.”
“No, I’m not, Beth, don’t you fret about me. I’ve a good conscience before my God and my Saviour. Now just you leave Jane in peace and trust her to God. That’s what you’re told to do in the Bible. Just you trust the Lord. He’ll look after Jane.”
And Beth would be momentarily silenced more by the sense of her elder sister’s family authority than by any respect for her arguments.
Aunt Patty and I were happiest when we were left alone.
In July it became very hot. The back garden was ablaze with flowers. Rows of hollyhocks lined the wooden fences at either side. Butterflies fluttered in the sun. The bee-hives at the bottom of the garden were all a-murmur. We spent long hours on the back verandah, and Aunt Patty, her knitting needles moving swiftly (she knitted a good deal, but always had a book open on her lap), would question me about my life in Paris, and I would tell her as much of the truth as I could. Her conclusions were characteristic.