"I should do a bit of Banting first," continued papa, with one of those sneers against mamma's _embonpoint_ which do make her so angry. And then, after a great deal of talking and arguing, in which of course mamma must have it all her own way, and me not consulted a bit, they settled that mamma was to write to Allsham, and then if the letter in reply proved satisfactory, she was to go down at once and see the place. If she liked it, I was to spend a year there for a finishing course of education; for they would not call it--as I spitefully told papa they ought to--they would not call it sending me back to school; and it was too bad, after promising that the two years I passed in the convent at Guisnes should be the last. Yes: too bad. I could not help it if my grammar was what papa called, in his slangy way, "horribly slack." I never did like that horrid parsing, and I'm sure it comes fast enough with reading. Soeur Celine never found fault with my French grammatical construction when I wrote letters to her, and I wrote one that very day; for it did seem such a horrid shame to treat me in so childish a way. And while I was writing--or rather, while I was sitting at the window, thinking of what to say, and biting the end of my pen--who should come by but the new curate, Mr Saint Purre, of Saint Sympathetica's, and when he saw how mournful I looked, he raised his hat with such a sad smile, and passed on. By the way, what an improvement it is, the adoption of the beard in the church. Mr Saint Purre's is one of the most beautiful black, glossy, silky beards ever seen; and I'm sure I thought so then, when I was writing about going back to school--a horrible, hateful place! How I bit my lips and shook my head! I could have cried with vexation, but I would not let a soul see it; for there are some things to which I could not stoop. In fact, after the first unavailing remonstrance, if it had been to send me to school for life, I would not have said another word. For only think of what mamma said, and she must have told papa what she thought. Such dreadful ideas. "You are becoming too fond of going to church, Laura," she said with a meaning look. "I'm afraid we did wrong in letting you go to the sisters." "Absurd, mamma!" I cried. "No one can be too religious." "Oh, yes, my dear, they can," said mamma, "when they begin to worship idols." "What do you mean, mamma?" I cried, blushing, for there was a curious meaning in her tone. "Never mind, my dear," she said, tightening her lips. "Your papa quite agreed with me that you wanted a change." "But I don't, mamma," I pleaded. "Oh yes you do, my dear," she continued, "you are getting wasted and wan, and too fond of morning services. What do you think papa said?" "I don't know, mamma." "He said, `That would cure it.'"