think that Sunday is the dullest day in the week,” exclaimed Vincent, stretching himself with a weary yawn; “and a wet Sunday is the worst of all.” Clemence put down the book which she had been reading, and joined Vincent at the window, where he was drearily watching the raindrops plashing on the brown pavement, making circles in the muddy pools, and coursing each other slowly down the panes. She seated herself beside him, resting her arm on the back of his chair.
“Some people speak of enjoying Sunday,” pursued Vincent. “I’m certain it is nothing but talk. I know Aunt Selina said that she did so one day when our clergyman was making a call. I know that what she does on Sunday is to notice the dress of everybody at church, and find fault with the sermon, and talk over all the plans for the week. I don’t see much enjoyment in that.” Nor did Clemence; but she thought it better not to express her opinion.
“Do you enjoy Sunday?” asked Vincent, turning round, so that he could look his step-mother in the face.
“Yes; especially Sundays in the country.”
“Where’s the difference between Sundays in London and Sundays in the country?” asked Vincent.
Here was an opening for pleasant, familiar converse, and Clemence was not slow in availing herself of it. She talked of her school at Stoneby; gave interesting anecdotes of her girls; told of an aged, bed-ridden woman, who loved to receive a call every Sunday afternoon, always expecting that her visitor would repeat to her the leading points in the morning’s sermon. Greatly had Clemence missed her accustomed Sabbath labours of love, her husband having decidedly objected to her undertaking any such in the great metropolis. It was sweet to her now to recall them; and in Vincent, who was thoroughly weary of his own society, she found a willing listener.
“I can fancy that it must be pleasant going to the cottages, where every one is glad to see you,” said the boy; “but then there are the long, tiresome evenings, especially during the winter; how did you manage to get over them?”
“I sang hymns, and read a good deal.”
“Oh, but Sunday books are so dull.”
“Do you think so? I find some so interesting.”
“I never saw one yet which did not set me yawning before I had got through half a page.”
Clemence went to the book-case without replying, and returning with a volume of the “History of the Reformation,” resumed her seat by Vincent. “Would you like to hear a story?” she said, after turning to an interesting passage in the life of Luther.
“A story, yes; but I don’t want a sermon.”
Clemence read with animation and expression, and Vincent speedily became interested. The history naturally led to questions from the intelligent boy, which his step-mother readily answered. He was unconsciously drinking in information upon one of the most important of subjects.
“How odd it is,” exclaimed Vincent suddenly, “that I should ever have taken you for a Papist!”
“A Papist!” repeated Clemence in a little surprise.
“Why, Aunt Selina told us that your grandmother was a Frenchwoman.”
“And so she was, but not a Romanist.”
Vincent’s countenance fell. “So you’re partly French, after all,” cried he; “I’m sorry for that, for I hate the French.”
“Should we hate anything but sin?” said Clemence softly.
“I’m a regular John Bull!” cried Vincent, “and I don’t care if all the world knew it! Britannia for ever, say I!”
“You cannot love old England better than I do,” said Clemence; “but patriotism is one thing, and prejudice another.”
“What do you call prejudice?” asked Vincent.
“The determination to dislike some one or something before judgment has had time to decide whether it merit your dislike or not. Surely this is neither reasonable nor right!”
“I think that we were prejudiced against you,&rdquo............