I cannot say I was sorry when I heard voices in the library as we came in the house. And that's a bad sign when a girl's in love. There should be no such music to a love-lorn pair as dead silence in the library when they come home through the dark. When the poet sang of voices of the night I'm sure he meant just two.
The Presbytery meeting was evidently over, for they were all home, Mr. Furvell among them. Now I should have said at the outset that Mr. Furvell, although he was our pastor and much beloved at that, was really quite a Puritan of a man. And I was sure, as soon as he shook hands with me that night, that he was concerned about my soul.
"Did you enjoy the play, Miss Helen?" he said, looking as solemnly at me as though I had spent the evening where Dives was when he asked for a drop of water to cool his tongue.
"No," said I, "it was a fool play," whereat Mr. Furvell looked a little comforted.
"We had a beautiful service at the Presbytery," he went on, his solemnity but little diluted; "the Lord was with us, Miss Helen," with an intonation that implied a monopoly. "You'd have been more profited if you had been there. Don't you think so, Mr. Laird?"
I fancy none of us learned much from our visitor's reply. Whatever it was, it was quite evasive; but I remember that he looked at me instead of his questioner—and I felt a little rising anger that my own minister should have put me in this light before a stranger. He would have found out what a frivolous heathen I was quite soon enough, I thought, without any assistance of this kind from Mr. Furvell. The conversation seemed to flag a little after this, and it wasn't very long till Charlie and I slipped off into the library. I didn't slip as cheerfully as Charlie. And he hadn't got more than well begun upon a general criticism of Mr. Laird before uncle knocked at the door—uncle was a very cautious man—"We're going to have prayers; will you and Mr. Giddens come in to worship?"
Charlie gave a little gasp. "We're at our devotions right now ourselves," he said, so low that uncle could not hear. Then we had a swift little debate. I was for prayers, and Charlie said he believed they had brought that whole Presbytery together just to convert me. Which, I retorted, would be like training all the guns of the American navy on one little house fly.
Anyhow, we went in—even Charlie couldn't have done anything else—and the Reverend Gordon Laird had the Bible in his hand.
"Do you sing?" he suddenly enquired, looking up from the book.
"Who?" asked my Aunt Agnes, quite amazed.