‘I do not wish Mr. Dusautoy to interfere in my family regulations. I mean, that I have a great respect for him, but as a clergyman, and one wedded to form, he would not take into account the great evil of making a public display, and attracting attention to a girl of her age, station, and disposition. And, in fact,’ added Mr. Kendal, with the same scrupulous candour as his daughter always showed, ‘for the sake of my own position, and the effect of example, I should not wish this unfortunate omission to be known.’ ‘I suspect,’ said Albinia, ‘that the example of repairing it would speak volumes of good.’ ‘It is mere absurdity to speak of it!’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘The poor child is not to leave her couch yet for weeks.’ Sophy was told in the morning that the question was under consideration, and Lucy was strictly forbidden to mention the subject. When next Mr. Kendal came to read with Sophy, she said imploringly, ‘Papa, have you thought?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have done so; but your mamma thinks, and, on examination of the subject, I perceive she is right, that the service has no meaning unless it take place in the church.’ ‘Yes,’ said Sophy; ‘but you know I am to be allowed to go about in July.’ ‘You will hardly be equal to any fatigue even then, I fear, my dear; and you would find this publicity extremely trying and unpleasant.’ ‘It would not last ten minutes,’ said Sophy, ‘and I am sure I should not care! I should have something else to think about. Oh! papa, when my forehead aches with surliness, it does feel so unblest, so uncrossed!’ and she put her hand over it, ‘and all the books and hymns seem not to belong to me. I think I shall be able to keep off the tempers when I have a right in the cross.’ ‘Ah! my child, I am afraid the tempers are a part of your physical constitution,’ he returned, mournfully. ‘You mean that I am like you, papa,’ said Sophy. ‘I think I might at least learn to be really like you, and if I must feel miserable, not to be unkind and sulky! And then I should leave off even the being unhappy about nothing.’ Her eyes brightened, but her father shook his head sadly, and said, ‘You would not be like me, my dear, if depression never made you selfish. But,’ he added, with an effort, ‘you will not suffer so much from low spirits when you are in better health, and able to move about.’ ‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Sophy; ‘I often feel so sick of lying here, that I feel as if I never could be sulky if only I might walk about, and go from one room to another when I please! But papa, you will let me be admitted into the Church when I am able, will you not?’ ‘It shall be well weighed, Sophy.’