“I sing them in church, my pet.” “But you never teached them to me, mother; they are all nurse’s hymns, the little one and the long one, and the little wee hymn I say with my prayers. Would you like to hear my little wee hymn, mother dear?” “I will hear all you know, my darling.” But there were tears in the beautiful eyes as she listened. “How nicely she says them! I am glad you teach her such pretty hymns, Merle,” as the child ran off to fetch Snap, who was whining for admittance. “Somehow it seems more like the Sunday of old times up here—so quiet, so peaceful. We must do as the world does, I suppose; but these secular, bustling Sundays are not to my taste.” Her words jarred on me, and I replied rather too quickly, considering my position, “Are we obliged to follow a bad fashion? That is indeed going with the crowd to do evil.” She looked up in some surprise. It must have been a new thing to the petted mistress of the household to hear herself so sharply rebuked. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” I exclaimed, penitently; “I had no right to say that; I forgot to whom I was speaking.” “Do not distress yourself, Merle,” she returned, in her sweet way; “it is good for all of us to hear the truth sometimes. It was foolish of me to say that. I only mean that in our house it is very difficult not to follow the world’s custom.” “Very difficult indeed,” I acquiesced; but she continued to look at me thoughtfully. “Do not be afraid of saying what is in your mind; you may speak to me plainly, if you will. You are my children’s nurse, but I cannot forget that in many ways we are equals. You never intrude this fact on my notice, but it is none the less apparent. I know our Sundays are terribly secular,” as I continued silent; “sometimes I wish it were not so, for my children’s sake.” “Not for your own sake, Mrs. Morton?” A distressed look came over her face. “I seem to have no time to wish for anything.” “I could well believe that; but, Mrs. Morton, it seems to me as though we owe some duty to ourselves. If we neglect the highest part of ourselves we are committing a sort of mental suicide. How often has Aunt Agatha told me that!” “How do you mean?” she asked, anxiously. “We all need a quiet time for thought. It always seems to me that on Sunday one lays down one’s burthens for a time. It is such a rest to shut out the world for one day in the week, to forget the harass of one’s work, to take up higher duties, to lift one’s standard afresh, and prove one’s armour. It is just like abiding in the tents for shelter and rest in the heat of battle.” I had forgotten the difference in our station, and was talking to my mistress just as though she were Aunt Agatha. Something seemed to compel me to speak; I felt a strange sort of trouble oppressing me, as though I saw a beautiful soul wandering out of the way. She seemed moved at my words, and it was several minutes before she spoke again.