“I don’t believe you,” said Leila, catching her arm, so as to see the book.
“Children,” said their mother’s voice, warningly.
They started.
“I’ve got Aunt Margaret’s out of the drawing-room,” whispered Christabel. “There now—if it’s found out, it’s all your fault,” and Leila, startled, made no reply.
Church-time passed, and more than once Mrs Fortescue, glancing at the children, was pleased to see that Chrissie appeared to be following the service with unusual attention. She would have been less content had she known that for this there were two reasons. Firstly, Chrissie was afraid of closing the prayer-book; secondly, she was interested and amused by the old-world names she found in it—“His Majesty King George,” “Our gracious Queen Charlotte,” etc, etc, the Service for “Gunpowder’s Day,” and other now discarded memorials. It was really quite “entertaining,” but I doubt if her idle, careless thoughts took part in one single prayer all through the morning, if even one “Our Father,” in which surely the very youngest child, as well as the humblest and simplest worshipper, can fully join, came from her heart.
Poor Chrissie—poor Leila—sterner teaching was preparing for them.
There was some delay in the church porch, as the congregation was passing out.
“I do believe it’s raining,” said Mrs Fortescue, and so it was. “I hope you have your umbrellas, children?” she went on.
Yes—Leila had brought hers; but Chrissie, no! “Really Chrissie,” said her father, “you are too forgetful. Don’t you remember my saying at breakfast that it looked very like rain?”
Chrissie made no reply; for once she had no excuse to offer.