Mary had an inspiration. “Etruria,” she cried, “some one has been teaching you this.”
The girl blushed. “Well, Miss,” she said simply, “it was at church I learned most of it.”
“At church? What church? Not Riddsley?” For it was to Riddsley, to a service as dull as it was long, that they proceeded on Sundays in a chaise as slow as the reader.
“No, Miss, not Riddsley,” Etruria answered. “It’s at Brown Heath on the Chase. But it’s not a real church, Miss. It’s a room.”
“Oh!” Mary replied. “A meeting-house!”
For some reason Etruria’s eyes gleamed. “No, Miss,” she said. “It’s the curate at Riddsley has a service in a room at Brown Heath on Thursdays.”
“And you go?”
“When I can, Miss.”
The idea of attending church on a week-day was strange to Mary; as strange as to that generation was the zeal that passed beyond the common channel to refresh those whom migrations of population or changes in industry had left high and dry. The Tractarian movement was giving vigor not only to those who supported it, but to those who withstood it.
“And you’ve a sermon?” Mary said. “What was the text last Thursday, Etruria?”