After all, the only serious blemishes in the scheme of creation were grandmothers and Sundays. Now that Val had renounced religion, she could not but look on the day of rest as an interruption and a time of bondage, when grandmothers and grandmothers' views pervaded creation to creation's cost. On the third Sunday after the arrival at New Plymouth she announced that she was not going to church. "I don't want to, either," whispered Emmie. "Let's pertend we're very ill." "No; let's just say we won't go." "Better not," admonished the cautious Emmie. "I think my throat is going to be sore." So Emmie was duly cosseted by Aunt Jerusha, and given delicious black-currant jelly. Mrs. Gano, hearing rumors of rebellion, had sent for Val. She was dressed and sitting in the big arm-chair before the fire with a book on her knees. It was quite warm, but she couldn't apparently do without a fire and a shawl. She was seldom seen about the house in these days without a shawl. She must have had hundreds--white and black and gray, striped and dotted; silk, cashmere, canton-crêpe. Her gowns all seemed to be made of rusty black silk. They were so exactly alike that Val thought for long she had but one. There was always, too, the inevitable and spotless lawn at the throat; no frivolous ruffle or after-thought of tie--nothing set on, extraneous, but smooth white folds that seemed to grow up out of the dress--an integral part of the plain and changeless uniform that was the outward and visible sign of one's grandmother's severe, uncompromising spirit. "What's this I hear? Why are you not dressing for church?" "I--I don't feel like going to-day." "Are you not well?" "Ho yes"--very contemptuous. "I never get ill." "Then you must go to church. It's the custom in this house." "Venie says _you_ go only twice a year. I'll go when you do." The old lady's eyes blazed behind her gold spectacles. "You'll go when you are told." Awful pause. "When you are my age you may suit yourself." "Father hasn't had to wait all that time; he doesn't go now." "Your father is very ill." "Didn't go when he was well; that is, _hardly_ ever," added the explicit young person. "He went regularly as a boy, before he had a house of his own. But I'm not accustomed to arguing with children. Go and get dressed." Val wavered a moment, then faced about gravely. She planted herself before the old lady, with the wide-apart legs and tense look of one who braces herself to bear the crack of doom. "I'm sorry to hurt your feelings," she said; "but I'm a infidel." "What!" "Yes; father and I are both infidels." "Hush! you don't know what you're saying." "Oh yes, I do. He says, 'Damn it!' when you're not there." "How dare you!" "I don't, but father does, so you see--" "I see that you talk wildly and ignorantly, as well as too much. Go and dress for church."