"I thort it was a leetle so myself," said Aunt Pilcher, "and I began to conceit people took me for a papist or a Jesuit, so I made up my mind to say so to once; and on I walks agin till I come to Broome street, deown which I went till I found a nice look-in' church, and says I to a minister-lookin' gentleman, says I:
"'I'm not a Jesuit, sir.'
"'Glad to hear it, ma'am,' says he, 'there are concealed Jesuits all over.'
"'I'm a Protestant,' says I, 'pre-haps you can show me a meetin'-house that believes in the Holy Catholic Church; is that one there?'
"I am grieved,' says he, 'that anybody should wish to know anythin' abeout the Catholic Church, and I hope you have no intention of goin' to sich a place of abomination.'
"He didn't 'pear to know my mean-in', so says I, 'I mean the real Catholic Church.'
"'Ma'am,' says he, 'real or unreal, it is always the same thing; always was and always will be. That is a Baptist church, ma'am, before you, and not a Catholic mass house. There is one of them, called St. Peter's, in Barclay street, I believe,' and off he walked without sayin' another word. 'Patience,' says I to myself, 'be true to your name,' for, to tell the truth, I was gettin' a leetle bit flustrated. I walks on, turnin' corners and reound and reound, and at last I got into a street called Bedford street. There I saw a meetin'-house with a sign over the door tellin' it was a Methodist. Says I to a man that was jist then sweepin reound the door—thinkin' to begin right this time—says 'I:
"'My Christian friend, the apostles believed in the Holy Catholic Church.'
'"Not a bit of it,' says he.