"Nasty!" he laughed harshly. "What a bread-and-butter Miss it is, with her `nice' and `nasty,' and little cut-and-dried maxims and beliefs! One can just see the English village where you have lived, and the worthy Victorians who have lived around. You knew about six families in all, I presume, and lived in terror of what they would say; and they also lived in terror of you. There is no monarchy so absolute as the Mrs Grundy of a country town. And you went on Sunday to the Church-- rather a low church I should say, breathing forth enmity equally against ritualism and dissent--went twice a day--" "_And_ Sunday School! Don't forget Sunday School." "Ah! Sunday School. I'd forgotten the existence of Sunday Schools. That revives old memories. I went to one myself in prehistoric times. Seems odd, doesn't it? Can you imagine me a small, curled darling in a Sunday School class? It was a dank, underground cellar of a place, shaped like an amphitheatre, with seats rising one above another. We infants sat bunched together in a corner, and the teacher stood before us on the flat. She was a plain soul, with three large warts on one cheek. I used to gaze at them fascinated, and ponder what could be done. The warts interested me more than her words, but I made gallant attempts at attention. We were bribed to attend,--one little card with an illuminated text for good behaviour and attention; so many cards, one small book; so many small books, a prize at Christmas. I actually won one prize. Can you imagine me gaining a Sunday School prize?" Katrine regarded him thoughtfully with her deep blue eyes. The slighting, almost contemptuous tone in which he spoke seemed to hurt her more for his sake than for her own, as proving the invariable bitterness of his mind. She was the only soul on board who had sought his friendship, and even to her-- "Do you ever think--?" she stammered, confused and shy, yet possessed by a gallant resolve to improve the occasion. "Do you ever remember the things you heard?" "Bible stories!" He laughed again, his harsh, unmirthful laugh. "My good girl, is it possible to _forget_? They are too terribly true. I've _seen_ them acted before my eyes. I've lived through them myself. Heavens! how many of those old stories I've lived through! I've eaten of the fruit of knowledge--a liberal repast, and as a result been turned out of my Eden; I've wandered in far lands; I've defrauded my neighbour, and sold my birthright for, not gold, not silver, not even a mess of pottage--for a foaming poison which has killed body and soul! I've sung my penitential psalms--and, _gone on sinning_! I've sung my Song of Solomon, also, I must not forget that!"