"You will be sorry for it, sister."
"Well; I am sorry for most things, sooner or later," said Mrs. Englefield.
So weeks went by; until it came to be the end of winter, and something of spring was already stealing into the sunlight and softening the air; that wonderful nameless "something," which is nothing but a far-off kiss from Spring's fingers. One Sunday Mrs. Englefield had gone to bed with a headache; and hastening away from the dinner-table, Matilda went off to her appointment. Mr. Ulshoeffer had been propitious; he let the little girls have the key on the inside of the schoolroom door; and an hour before it was time for the classes of the school to be gathering, the three friends met at the gate and went in. They always sat in a far-off corner of one of the transepts, to be as cozy as possible. They were all punctual to-day, Ailie having the key of the door.
"Girls, don't you get confused sometimes, with the things you hear people say?" she asked, as she unlocked the door. "I do; and then sometimes I get real worried."
"So do I get worried!" Mary Edwards assented. "And I don't know what to say—that's the worst of it."
"Now only to-day," Ailie went on, as they walked up the matted aisle with a delicious sense of being free and alone and confidential, "I heard some one say it was no use for children to be Christians; he said they didn't know their own minds, and don't know what they want, and by and by it will all be smoke. And when I hear such things, it affects me differently. Sometimes I get mad; and then sometimes it takes the strength all out of me."
"But if we have the right sort of strength," said Matilda, "people can't take it from us, Ailie."
"Well, mine seems to go," said Ailie. "And then I feel bad."
"We know what we want," said Mary, "if we are children."
"We know our own minds," said Matilda. "We know we do. It is no matter what people say."