Billy made no reply. He wondered if he ought to stay at home.
“Do you like it, Sunday School, I mean? I don’t. I like church, though,—the great booming organ, the beautiful singing. And when the minister speaks I just float away into fairy-land and never come back till he says, ‘The-Lord-make-his-face-to-shine-upon-us-amen.’”
“I like Sunday School best ’cause I do things there.”
“What things?”
“I’m sec’etary; and I pass the books, and sing; and I’m—I’m giggle squelcher.”
“What a funny word! What do you mean?”
“Why, you see,” Billy hesitated, for he was modest, “sister has a class of us heathen boys, and—well, you see, it’s this way; sister says,—she’s partial, you know,—she says I have influence; if I don’t giggle the others won’t, and she gets on O. K.”
“How splendid! You must go, Billy. Do all the boys mind you?”
“All but Sour; an’ sister’s fixed him. He’s crazy over music, and she got his father to let him take lessons, and that kid’s her slave ever since. But it isn’t minding, Ladybird; the guys take my cue, and we tell things we’ve hunted up in the week about the lesson; and sister tells things, and we’re so busy we forget to be silly.”
May Nell looked at him a minute before speaking. “You like doing things, but you don’t like work. Isn’t work doing things?”