'"
"Oh, Paradise! oh, Paradise!" hummed Amy Raeburn that same Sunday
morning as, the last to leave the Manse, she ran after her mother and
sisters. The storm of the two previous days had newly brightened the
landscape. Every twig and branch shone, and the red and yellow maple
leaves, the wine-color of the oak, the burnished copper of the beech,
were like jewels in the sun.
"If it were not Sunday I would dance," said Amy, subduing her steps to a
sober walk as she saw approaching the majestic figure of Mrs. Cyril
Bannington Barnes.
"You are late, Amy Raeburn," said this lady. "Your father went to church
a half-hour ago, and the bell is tolling. Young people should cultivate
a habit of being punctual. This being a few minutes behind time is very
reprehensible--very rep-re-hen-sible indeed, my love."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Amy, meekly, walking slowly beside the also tardy
Mrs. Barnes.
"I dare say," continued Mrs. Barnes, "that you are thinking to yourself
that I also am late. But, Amy, I have no duty to the parish. I am an
independent woman. You are a girl, and the minister's daughter at that.
You are in a very different position. I do hope, Amy Raeburn, that you
will not be late another Sunday morning. Your mother is not so good a
disciplinarian as I could wish."
"No, Mrs. Barnes?" said Amy, with a gentle questioning manner, which
would have irritated the matron still more had their progress not now
ceased on the church steps.
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