The usual name for the Sabbath in our home was the Lord's Day, because of our Lord's Resurrection. On other days my Father read to us, and made us read and love other books--books of history and science as well as of religion, Shakespeare, Spenser, the early poems of Mr. John Milton, and, when we could understand them, the Italian poet Dante, or Davila, and other great Italians who spoke nobly of order and liberty. Bui on this day of God he never read but from these two divine books, Nature and the Holy Scriptures. In church we had not always any sermon at all. Preaching had not been much encouraged since the days of Queen Elizabeth. Occasionally one of the lecturers, or gospel preachers, whom Mr. Cromwell and other good men were so anxious to supply at their own cost, used, in our earlier days, to enter our pulpit and arouse us children with bursts of earnest warning or entreaty (our parish minister then being a meek and conformable person). But Archbishop Laud soon put a stop to this, and sent us a clergyman of his own type, who fretted Aunt Dorothy by changing the places and colours of things, moving the communion-table from the middle of the church, where it had stood since the Reformation, to the East End, wearing white where we were used to black, and coats of many colours where we were used to white, and in general moving about the church in what appeared to us Puritan children, uninstructed in symbolism, a restless and unaccountable manner; standing when we had been wont to sit, kneeling when we had been wont to stand, making little unexpected bows in one direction and little inexplicable turns in another, in a way which provided matter of lively speculation to Roger and me during the week, since we never knew what new movement might be executed on the following Sunday. But to Aunt Dorothy these innovations were profanities, which would have been utterly intolerable had she not consoled herself by regarding them as signs of the end of all things. For what to Mr. Nicholls, the parson, was the "beauty of holiness," and to our father "personal peculiarities of Mr. Nicholls," and to Aunt Gretel but one more of our "incomprehensible English customs," were to Aunt Dorothy the infernal insignia of the "Mother of abominations." She therefore remained resolutely and rigidly sitting and standing as she had been wont, a target for fiery darts from Mr. Nicholls' eyes, and a sore perplexity to Aunt Gretel, who, never having mastered our Anglican rubric, had hitherto had no ceremonial rule, but to do what those around her did, and was thus thrown into inextricable difficulties between the silent reproaches of Aunt Dorothy's compressed lips if she did one thing, and the suspicious glances of the Parson's eyes if she did another.