"O John! I am so glad you have come. You have almost been the death of me though, you naughty man."
"How so, Juliet?"
"Why, did you not tell me when I objected to going to St. Mark's that if I did not go and take the children you should take them with you?"
"I did."
"Well, of course, rather than to have them go to that Irish Church, I made a martyr of myself and went with them to St. Mark's, but it is for the last time this summer, I can promise you. Why, I have almost died with the heat."
"It is a very warm day, unusually warm for the season," was the only response.
"And is that all, John, that you have to say? You are not going to take the children hereafter to church with you, when it is impossible for me to go with them to St. Mark's?"
"That is what I told you, Juliet. I have thoroughly made up my mind, and—"
"O, don't tell me you have made up your mind," cried the lady hysterically, who knew from a twelve years' experience that John Temple's made-up mind was like an adamantine wall to all her feeble missiles.
"Juliet," he replied firmly, "I will no longer see our children growing up without religious training. And this very day I have formed a new resolution. Johnny and Flora are to go with me every morning to early Mass. This is a subject which must be no longer neglected;" and here Mr. Temple, having loosened his necktie, and donned dressing-gown and slippers, took up the fan that Althea had dropped upon his entrance, and seated himself by his wife.