Bell colored and was silent. If she had chosen to speak, she would have said that of all her brother's far-fetched ideas this was the oddest, and one which she was little likely to appreciate. She certainly had not regarded Philip at all in that light, or as a gift from God any way. She returned her brother's good night, and, going into her own room, meditated how George was always the same incomprehensible fellow, always gay and full of life, and yet always taking seriously what every one said in temper or in fun, or by vanity, or for effect, "as if an idle word signified." With every one else in the house she did pretty much as she pleased; but George always contrived to manage her, and had done so ever since she was born. He had a quiet, serious way of talking to her, as if he were twenty years her senior, which was not flattering to Bell's vanity; yet she loved him so very much, she was not at all sure that she loved Philip better.
"Well, George," said Robert on Saturday night, "I suppose you are not going to church to-morrow with us?"
"Probably not," said George.
"I suppose you will go to St. Lawrence's, over here, with servant-girls, and stable-men, and rag-pickers; won't it be a sweet crowd!"
"Do be quiet, Robert," said his father, "what difference does it make whom you go to church with?"
"Mother," said Fanny, "may I go to church with brother George tomorrow?"
"No, Fanny, you may not," said Mrs. Hartland shortly, "and you are not to ask for such a thing. The Catholic religion is the religion of the devil, and I don't want you to know anything about it, or to hear or think anything about it. I would rather you were dead and buried than that you should be Catholics, any of you."
Poor Fanny looked dismayed, and Robert and Mary laughed irreverently; but Mr. Hartland said mildly,
"If the Catholic religion were the religion of the devil, my dear, I think there is nothing gained by saying so."