"Guess you might as well go along back the road ye come!" she said. "You won't get my Araminty Jemimy into no Sunday-School o' yourn this time. Maybe when she's growed older and wiser-like, she'll come and see you. She don' know what a Sunday-School's like. She thinks it's some sort of a trap."
"I ain't afraid!" spoke out black eyes.
"I didn't say you was," said her mother. "I might ha' said you was cunnin' enough to keep your foot out of it."
"It is not a trap," said Matilda, boldly. "It is a pleasant place, where we sing, and learn nice things."
"My children don't want to learn none o' your nice things," said the woman. "I can teach 'em to home."
"But you don't!" said black eyes. "You don't never learn us nothing!"
There was not the slightest sweet desire of learning evidenced in this speech. It breathed nothing but defiance.
"Alexander, won't you come?" said Matilda, timidly, as her sister moved to the door. For Maria's courage gave out. But at that question the young urchin addressed set up a roar of hoarse laughter, throwing himself down and rolling over on the floor. His mother shoved him out of her way with a push that was very like a kick, and his sister, seizing a wringing wet piece of clothes from the wash-tub, dropped it spitefully on his head. There was promise of a fight; and Matilda and Maria hurried out. They hastened their steps through the garden, and even out in the high road they ran a little to get away from Mrs. Dow's neighbourhood.
"Well!" said Maria, "what do you think now, Tilly? I hope you have got enough for once of this kind of thing. I promise you I have."
"Hush!" said Matilda. "Some one is calling."