"I'm gittin 'most ashamed of our wooden meetin'-house to Squankum," said she, one day, after returning from a visit to Trinity Church; "we used to be kinder proud of it, though, when some of the folks down to Rattlebog came over to spend Sabbath with us; 'cause ye know what a mis'able little country skule-house of a place they've got over there. Then, ye've got sich a lot o' churches, my! I'm 'most afeered never see them all, or I'll forgit abeout the first ones afore I git through."
"What sort of churches have you seen, aunty?" I asked.
"Oh! I've seen white-marbled ones and brown-stun ones, and a sort o' speckled mixed ones like Washin'ton cake, ye know, a streak o' jelly and a streak o' cake. Then agin, I've seen all kinds o' styles; Grecian, Beshantem, Gothys, high-steepled style, low-steepled style, and no-steepled style. But I haint seeing a green winder-shutter one like ours to Squankum yit. I s'pose the taste in architectur here in York don't run that 'a way."
But I was not thinking of the outside of the churches when I asked her the question, but of their inside. The truth was that Uncle George and I had been two or three times to see Mass and Vespers in the Catholic Church, and I was so full of all I had seen and heard there that I was nearly dying to talk with some one about it. But Uncle George had told me that he thought Aunt Jane—that is, Uncle George's sister who keeps house for him and me—might possibly disapprove of our going again if I happened to mention it, and so I took care to say nothing about it. I was very anxious to find out if Aunt Pilcher had seeing a Catholic Church, so I asked her if she happened to see any boys in the churches she had been to.
"Boys!" said she. "Why boys? Of course boys. Shouldn't boys go to meetin' as well as girls?"
"But boys dressed up," said I.
"Dressed up! Laws yes, in their best Sunday-go-to-meetin', as they ort to be."
"In long red coats, perhaps, down to their heels," I suggested, in spite of Uncle George's frown; "with nice white lace jackets over that again, and carrying torch-lights and censers, and going up and down and all around?" I added, eager to describe all I had seen.
"Why! what's come to the boy?" exclaimed Aunt Pilcher, raising up her hands in astonishment. "He ain't right," meaning in my head."'