The next day but one, in the afternoon, a little figure set out from Mrs. Englefield's gate on a solitary expedition. She had left her sisters and cousin in high debate, over the various probabilities of pleasure attainable through the means of twenty-five dollars. Matilda listened gravely for a while; then left them, put on her hood and cloak, and went out alone. It was rather late in the short winter afternoon; the slanting sunbeams made a gleam of cheer, though it was cold cheer too, upon the snowy streets. They stretched away, the white streets, heaped with banks of snow where the gutters should be, overhung with brown branches of trees, where in summer the leafy canopy made a pleasant shade all along the way. No shade was wanted now; the air was growing more keen already since the sun had got so far down in the west. Tilly turned the corner, where by Mr. Forshew's hardware shop there was often a country waggon standing, and always a knot of loitering men and boys gathering or retailing the news, if there was any; when there was none, seeking a poorer amusement still in stories and jests, mingled with profanity and tobacco. Tilly was always glad to have passed the corner; not that there was the least danger of incivility from any one lingering there, but she did not like the neighbourhood of such people. She turned up towards the church, which stood in one of the principal streets of the village. Matilda herself lived in the other principal street. The two were at right angles to each other, each extending perhaps half a mile, with comfortable houses standing along the way; about the "corner" they stood close together, for that was the business quarter, and there were the stores. Passing the stores and shops, there came next a succession of dwelling-houses, some of more and some of less pretension; in general it was less. The new houses of the successful tradesmen were for the most part in the street where Matilda's mother lived. These were many of them old and low; some were poor. Here there was a doctor's shop; there a heap of dingy sheep skins and brown calf hides cast down at a door, told of the leather store; here and there hung out a milliner's sign. A few steps further on the other side of the way, a great brick factory stood; Matilda had no very distinct notion of what wares it turned out, but the children believed they were iron works of some sort. A cross street here led to side ways which extended parallel with the main thoroughfare, one on the north and one on the south of it, and which, though more scatteringly built up, were yet a considerable enlargement of the village. A little further on, and Matilda had reached the church; in her language the church, though only one of several in which the villagers delighted. A great creamy-brown edifice, of no particular style of architecture, with a broad porch upheld by a row of big pillars, and a little square tower where hung a bell, declared to be the sweetest and clearest of all in the neighbourhood. So, many thought, were the utterances inside the church. Just beyond, Matilda could see the lecture-room, with its transepts, and its pretty hood over the door, for all which and sundry other particulars concerning it she had a private favour; but Matilda did not go so far this afternoon. Short of the lecture-room, a gate in the fence of the church grounds stood open; a large gate, through which waggons and carriages sometimes passed; Matilda turned in there, and picked her way over the ridgy snow down the lane that led to the parsonage.

The parsonage sat thus quietly back from the sights and noises of the street; a little brown house, it looked, half hidden in summer by the sweeping foliage of the elms that overarched the little lane; half sheltered now in winter by a goodly pine-tree that stood in the centre of the little plot of grass round which swept the road to the front-door. Wheels or runners had been there, for the road was tracked with them; but not many, for the villagers needed no such help to get to the minister, and there were few of the church people who lived at a distance and could leave their work and take their teams on a week-day to come a-pleasuring; and still fewer who were rich enough to do as they liked at all times. There were some; but Matilda ran little risk of meeting them; and so mounted the parsonage steps and lifted the knocker with no more than her own private reasons for hesitation, whatever those might be. She knocked, however, and steps carne within, and Miss Redwood opened the door.

"Well!" she said, "here's the first one this blessed afternoon. I thought I was going to get along for once without any one; but such luck don't come to me. Wipe the snow off, dear, will you, clean? for my hall's as nice as – well, I don't know what; as nice as it had ought to be. That will do. Now, come in, for the air's growin' right sharp. What is it, my dear?"

"Is Mr. Richmond at home?" Matilda asked.

"Well, I s'pose he is. I hain't hearn him nor seen him go out since noon. Do ye want to see him, or is it a message? – ye want to see him, eh. Well, I s'pose he'll see you – if he ain't too busy – and I don't know when he gets time for all he has to do, but he gets it; so I s'pose I had ought to be satisfied. I don't, I know; but I s'pose men and women is different. Some folks would say that's a reason why men was created the first and the best; but I don't think so myself. And here I am an old goose, a-talkin' to little Tilly Englefield about philosophy, instead o' lettin' her into the minister's room. Well, come in, dear; round this way; the minister has taken a notion to keep that door shut up because of the cold."

Miss Redwood had not been idle during the utterance of this speech. First she had been shaking the snow from the door mat on which Matilda's feet had left it; then she seized a broom and brushed the white masses from the hall carpet out to the piazza, and even off the painted boards of that. Finally came in, shut the door, and led Matilda to the back of the hall, where it turned, and two doors, indeed three, confronted each other across a yard of intervening space. The housekeeper knocked at the one which led into the front room; then set it open for Matilda to go in, and closed it after her.

A pleasant room that was, though nothing in the world could be more unadorned. Deal shelves all around were filled with books; a table or two were piled with them; one, before the fire, was filled as well with papers and writing materials. This fronted, however, a real blazing fire, the very thing Miss Redwood had once been so uneasy about; in a wide open chimney-place, where two great old-fashioned brass andirons with round heads held a generous load of oak and hickory sticks, softly snapping and blazing. The sweet smell of the place struck Matilda's sense, almost before she saw the minister. It was a pure, quiet, scented atmosphere that the room held; where comfort and study seemed to lurk in the very folds of the chintz window-curtains, and to shine in the firelight, and certainly seemed to fill Mr. Richmond's arm-chair even when he was not in it. He rose out of it now to meet his little visitor, and laid study on the table. Of one sort.

"All's well at home, Tilly?" he asked, as he put her into his own chair.

"Yes, sir."

"And you do not come to me with any message but to see me yourself?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's nice. Now while you are talking to me, I will roast you an apple."

Matilda looked on with great curiosity and as great a sense of relief, while Mr. Richmond took out of a cupboard a plate of apples, chose a fine one with a good bit of stem, tied a long pack-thread to this, and then hung the apple by a loop at the other end of the string, to a hook in the woodwork over the fireplace. The apple, suspended in front of the blazing fire, began a succession of swift revolutions; first in one direction and then in the other, as the string twisted or untwisted.

"Did you ever roast an apple so?"

"No, Mr. Richmond."

"It is the best way in the world – when you haven't got any other."

"We haven't got that way at our house," said Matilda; "for we have no fires; nothing but stoves."

"You speak as if you thought fires were the best plan of the two."

"Oh, I do, Mr. Richmond! I do not like stoves at all. They're so close."

"I always thought stoves were rather close," said Mr. Richmond. "Now what did you come to see me roast apples for this afternoon? Did you come to keep your promise?"

"Yes, sir," Matilda answered, rather faintly.

"Are you sorry you made the promise?" Mr. Richmond inquired, looking at her. But the look was so pleasant, that Matilda's could not keep its solemnity. She had come in with a good deal.

"I don't know but I was sorry," she said.

"And you are not sorry now?"

"I think not."

"That is all the better. Now what did you want to say to me, Matilda?"

"You know you made me say I would come, Mr. Richmond."

"Did I? I think not. I do not think I made you say anything – do you think I did?"

"Well, you asked me, Mr. Richmond."

"Just what did I ask you?"

"You asked me, if I would come and tell you – you said you wished I would come and tell you – if – "

And Matilda made a great pause. The eyes of her friend seemed only to be watching the apple, yet perhaps they knew that her little lips were unsteady and were trying to get steady. He left his seat to attend to the roast; got a plate and put on the hearth under it; arranged the fire; then came and with his own hands removed Matilda's hood and loosened and threw back her cloak; and while he did this he repeated his question, in tones that were encouragement itself.

"I wished you would come and tell me if – if what?"

"Yes, Mr. Richmond – if I thought I could not do something that I thought – I ought."

"Yes, I believe that was it, Tilly. Now, to begin with one thing at a time, what do you think you 'ought' to do?"

"Last night, I mean, Mr. Richmond; I mean, the night before last, at the meeting."

"I know. Well, what did you think then you ought to do?"

"Mr. Richmond, I think, I thought that I ought to rise up when Maria and the others did."

"I knew you thought so. Why did you not, then, Matilda?"

"I couldn't."

"Do you know why you could not?"

Again there was difficulty of speech on the child's part. Mr. Richmond's saying that "he knew" she had had such feelings, was an endorsement to her conscience; and Matilda could not immediately get over a certain swelling in her throat, which threatened to put a stop to the conversation. The minister waited, and she struggled.

"Why could you not do what the others did, Matilda?"

"Mr. Richmond – I didn't want to do the things."

"What things? Bringing new scholars to the Sunday-School, for instance?"

"Oh no, sir, I wouldn't mind doing that, or some other things either. But – "

"You mean, you do not want to pledge yourself to be a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ?"

"No, sir," after a pause, and low.

"Well, Tilly," said the minister, "I can only be very sorry for you. You keep yourself out of a great joy."

"But, Mr. Richmond," said Matilda, down whose cheeks quiet tears were now running, one after another; "don't you think I am very young yet to be a member of the Church?"

"Do you think Jesus died for you, Tilly?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you believe He loves you now?"

"Yes, sir."

"You understand all about that. Does He want you to be His obedient child and dear servant?"

"Yes, Mr. Richmond."

"You know all about that, too. Can you think of any reason why you should for another year refuse to love Him, refuse to mind Him, and do all that your example and influence can do to keep others from loving and minding Him? When He so loves and has loved you?"

Tilly's little hands went up to her face now, and the room was very still; only the flames softly flickering in the fireplace, and the apple sputtering before the fire. Mr. Richmond did not say a word for several minutes.

"Mr. Richmond," said Matilda at last, "do you think anybody cares what I do? – when I am so little?"

"I think the Lord Jesus cares. He said nobody was to hinder the little children from coming to Him. And I would rather be in His arms and have Him bless me, if I were you, than be anywhere else, or have anything else. And so would you, Tilly."

"But, Mr. Richmond – it is because I am not good."

"Yes, I know it. But that is a reason for giving yourself to the Lord Jesus. He will make you good; and there is no other way."

But Tilly's trouble at this got beyond management. She left her seat and came to Mr. Richmond, letting his arm draw her up to him, and dropping her head on his shoulder.

"O Mr. Richmond," she said, "I don't know how!"

"Don't know how to give yourself to Jesus? Do it in your heart, Tilly. He is there. Tell Him He may have you for His own child. He is at the door of your heart knocking; open the door and bid Him come in. He will make it a glad place if you do."

"Mr. Richmond," said the child, with great difficulty between her sobs – "won't you tell Him that I will?"

They kneeled down and the minister made a short prayer. But then he said —

"Now, Tilly, I want you to tell the Lord yourself."

"I can't, Mr. Richmond."

"I think you can. And I want you to try."

They waited and waited. Tilly sobbed softly, but the minister waited still. At last Tilly's tears ceased; then with her little hands spread before her face, she said very slowly —

"O Lord, I am a naughty child. I want to be good. I will do everything that you tell me. Please take my heart and make it all new, and help me to be strong and do right. Amen."

They rose up, but Mr. Richmond kept the child within his arm, where she had been standing.

"Now, Tilly, how do we know that our prayers are heard?"

"God has promised, hasn't He, Mr. Richmond?"

"Where? in what words?"

Tilly hesitated, and then repeated part of the verse, "Ask, and it shall be given you. Seek, and ye shall find."

"And look here," said Mr. Richmond, half turning, so as to bring her and himself within reach of the Bible that lay at his elbow on the table – "see here, Matilda. Read these words."

"'If ye shall ask anything in My name, I will do it.'"

"And here," —

"'Whatsover ye shall ask the Father in My name, He will give it you.'"

"Does Jesus ever break His promises?"

"No, Mr. Richmond; He can't."

"Then remember that, whenever you think of to-day, and whenever you feel troubled or weak. You are weak, but He is strong; and He cannot break His promises. So you and I are safe, as long as we hold to Him."

There was silence a little while, and Mr. Richmond set the apple to twirling again. It had untwisted its string and was hanging still.

"I am to put your name now, I suppose, Tilly, among the names of our Band; am I?"

"Yes, Mr. Richmond."

"What work would you like specially to do?"

"I do not know, Mr. Richmond; I will think."

"Very well; that is right. And there is another place where your name ought to go – is there not?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Yes; among those who desire to be members of the Church; to tell the world they are Christ's people."

"Oh no, Mr. Richmond."

"Why 'oh no, Mr. Richmond'?"

"I am not good enough. I want to be better first."

"How do you expect to get better?"

Silence.

"I suppose your thought is, that Jesus will make your heart new, as you asked Him just now, and help you to be strong. Is that it? – Yes. And you do not expect to accomplish the change or grow strong by your own power?"

"Oh no, sir."

"Don't you think Jesus loves you now as well as He will by and by, and is as ready to help you?"

"Yes, Mr. Richmond."

"Then, Tilly, I call it just distrust of Him, to hold off from what He commands you to do, for fear He will not help you to do it. I would be ashamed to offer such an excuse to Him."

"But – has He commanded that, Mr. Richmond?"

"He has commanded us to confess openly that we are His servants, hasn't He? and to be baptized in token of the change He has wrought in us, and as a sign that we belong to Him? How can we do either the one or the other without joining the Church?"

"I thought" – Matilda began, but seemingly did not like to tell what she had thought.

"Let us have it, Tilly," said her friend, drawing her closer to him. "You and I are talking confidentially, and it is best in those cases to talk all out. So what did you think?"

"I thought there were people who were the servants of Christ, and yet did not join any church," Matilda said softly.

"By not doing it, they as good as say to the world that they are not His servants. And the world judges accordingly. I have known people under such a delusion; but when they were honest, I have always known them to come out of it. If you give all you have to the Lord Jesus, you must certainly give your influence."

"But, I thought I might wait," Tilly said again.

"Till when?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

"Wait for what?"

"Till I was more like what – I ought to be, Mr. Richmond."

"Till you were more like the Lord Jesus?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you not think the quickest way to grow like Him would be to do and obey every word He says?"

Matilda bowed her head a little.

"You will be more likely to grow good and strong that way than any other; and I am sure the Lord will be more likely to help you if you trust Him, than if you do not trust Him."

"I think so too," Matilda assented.

"Then we will do everything, shall we, that we think our Lord would like to have us do? and we will trust Him to help us through with it?" Mr. Richmond said, with an affectionate look at the child beside him; and Matilda met the look and answered it with another.

"But, Mr. Richmond – "

"What is it?"

"There is one question I should like to ask."

"Ask it."

"Why ought people to be baptized?"

"Because our Lord commands it. Isn't that a good reason?"

"Yes, sir; but – what does it mean, Mr. Richmond?"

"It is a way of saying to the world, that we have left it, and belong to the Lord Jesus Christ. It is a way of saying to the world, that His blood has washed away our sins and His Spirit has made our hearts clean; or that we trust Him to do both things for us. And it is the appointed way of saying all this to the world; His appointed way. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, do you not think that those who love the Lord Jesus, ought to be glad to follow His will in this matter?"

"Yes, sir," Matilda said again, raising her eyes frankly to Mr. Richmond's face.

"Would you be willing to be left out, when next I baptize some of those who wish to make it publicly known that they are Christ's?"

"No, sir." And presently she added. "When will that be, Mr. Richmond?"

"I do not know," he answered, thoughtfully. "Not immediately. You and I must have some more talks before that time."

"You are very good to me, Mr. Richmond," Matilda said, gratefully.

"Have we said all we ought to say this time? Are there any more questions to bring up?"

"I haven't any to bring up," Matilda said.

"Is all clear that we have been talking about?"

"I think so."

"Now, will you be good to me, and stay and take supper with me? That knock at the door means that Miss Redwood would like to have me know that supper is ready. And you shall have this apple we have been roasting."

"Mr. Richmond, I think mamma would be frightened if I did not go home."

"She does not know where you are?"

"Nobody knows," said Matilda.

"Then it won't do to let you stay. You shall come another time, and we will roast another apple, won't you?"

"I should like to come," said Matilda. "Mr. Richmond, didn't you say you were going to talk to the Band and explain things, when we have our meetings?"

"I did say so. What do you want explained?"

"Some time, – I would like to know just all it means, to be a servant of Christ."

"All it means," said Mr. Richmond. "Well, it means a good deal, Tilly. I think we had better begin there with our explanations. I shall not make it a lecture; it will be more like a class; so you may ask as many questions as you please."

CHAPTER VI

The light of day was darkening fast, as Matilda ran home. Even the western sky gave no glow, when she reached her own gate and went in. After all, she had run but a very little way, in her first hurry; the rest of the walk was taken with sober steps.

When she came down-stairs, she found the lamp lit and all the young heads of the family clustering together to look at something. It was Anne's purchase, she found; Anne had spent her aunt's gift in the purchase of a new silk dress; and she was displaying it.

"It is a lovely colour," said Maria. "I think that shade of – what do you call it? is just the prettiest in the world. What do you call it, Clarissa? and where did you get it, Anne?"

"It is pearl gray," said Clarissa.

"I would have got blue, while I was about it," said Letitia; "there is nothing like blue; and it becomes you, Anne. You ought to have got blue. I would have had one dress that suited me, if I was you, if I never had another."

"This will suit me, I think," said Anne.

"Aren't you going to trim it with anything? Dresses are so much trimmed now-a-days; and this colour will not be anything unless you trim it."

Anne replied by producing the trimming. The exclamations of delight and approval lasted for several minutes.

"What are you going to get, Letitia?" Maria asked.

"I have not decided."

"I don't know, but I will have a watch," said Maria. "You can get a very good silver watch, a really good one, you know for twenty-five dollars."

"But a silver watch!" said Anne. "I would not wear anything but a gold watch."

"How am I going to get a gold watch, I should like to know?" said Maria. "I think it would be splendid."

"But what do you want of a watch, Maria?" her little sister asked.

"Oh, here is Matilda coming out! Just like her! Not a word about Anne's dress; and now she says, what do I want with a watch. Why, what other people want with one; I want to see the time of day."

"I don't think you do," said Matilda. "When do you?"

"Why, I should like to know in school, when it is recess time; and at home, when it is time to go to school."

"But the bell rings," said Matilda.

"Well, I don't always hear the bell, child."

"But when you don't hear it, I tell you."

"Yes, and it's very tiresome to have you telling me, too. I'd rather have my own watch. But I don't know what I will have; sometimes I think I'll just buy summer dresses, and then for once I'd have a plenty; I do like to have plenty of anything. And there's a necklace and earrings at Mr. Kurtz's that I want. Such lovely earrings!"

"Well, Matilda, what are you thinking of?" Letitia burst forth. "Such a face! One would think it was wicked to wear earrings. What is it, you queer child?"

But Matilda did not say what she was thinking of. The elder ladies came in, and the party adjourned to the tea-table.

A few hours later, when the girls had gone to their room, Matilda asked —

"When are you going to look for new scholars, Maria?"

"What?" was Maria's energetic and not very graceful response.

"When are you going to look for some new scholars to bring to the school?"

"The Sunday-School!" said Maria. "I thought you meant the school where we go every day. I don't know."

"You promised you would try."

"Well, so I will, when I see any I can bring."

"But don't you think you ought to go and look for them?"

"How can I, Tilly? I don't know where to go; and I haven't got time, besides."

"I think I know where we could go," said Matilda, "and maybe we could get one, at any rate. Don't you know the Dows' house? on the turnpike road? – beyond the bridge ever so far?"

"The Dows'!" said Maria. "Yes, I know the Dows' house; but who's there? Nothing but old folks."

"Yes, there are two children; I have seen them; two or three; but they don't come to school."

"Then I don't believe they want to," said Maria; "they could come if they wanted to, I am sure."

"Don't you think we might go and ask them? Perhaps they would come if anybody asked them."

"Yes, we might," said Maria; "but you see, Tilly, I haven't any time. It'll take me every bit of time I can get between now and Sunday to finish putting the braid on that frock; you have no idea how much time it takes. It curls round this way, and then twists over that way, and then gives two curls, so and so; and it takes a great while to do it. I almost wish I had chosen an easier pattern; only this is so pretty."

"But you promised, Maria."

"I didn't promise to go and look up people, child. I only promised to do what I could. Besides, what have you got to do with it? You did not promise at all."

"I will go with you, if you will go up to the Dows'," said Matilda.

"Oh, well! – don't worry, and I'll see about it."

"But will you go? Come, Maria, let us go."

"When?"

"Any afternoon. To-morrow."

"What makes you want to go?" said Maria, looking at her.

"I think you ought to go," Matilda answered, demurely.

"And I say, what have you got to do with it? I don't see what particular concern of mine the Dows are, anyhow."

Matilda sat a long while thinking after this speech. She was on the floor, pulling off her stockings and unlacing her boots; and while her fingers moved slowly, drawing out the laces, her cogitations were very busy. What concern were the Dows of hers or Maria's? They were not pleasant people to go near, she judged, from the look of their house and dooryard as she had seen it in passing; and the uncombed, fly-away head of the little girl gave her a shudder as she remembered it. They were not people that were often seen in church; they could not be good; maybe they used bad language; certainly they could not be expected to know how to "behave." Slowly the laces were pulled out of Matilda's boots, and her face grew into portentous gravity.

"Aren't you coming to bed?" said Maria. "What can you be thinking of?"

"I am thinking of the Dows?"

"What about them? I never thought about them three times in my life."

"But oughtn't we to think about people, Maria?"

"Nice people."

"I mean, people that are not nice."

"It will be new times when you do," said Maria. "Come! let the Dows alone and come to bed."

"Maria," said her little sister as she obeyed this request, "I was thinking that Jesus thought about people that were not nice."

"Well?" said Maria. "Do lie down! what is the use of getting into bed, if you are going to sit bolt upright like that and talk lectures? I don't see what has got into you."

"Maria, it seems to me, now I think of it, that those were the particular people He did care about."

"Don't you think He cared about good people?" said Maria, indignantly.

"But they were not good at first. Nobody was good at first – till He made them good. He said He didn't come to the good people; don't you remember?"

"Well, what do you mean by all that? Are we not to care for anybody but the people that are not good? A nice life we should have of it?"

"Maria," said her little sister, very thoughtfully, "I wonder what sort of a life He had?"

"Tilly!" said Maria, rising up in her turn, "what has come to you? What book have you been reading? I shall tell mamma."

"I have not been reading any book," said Matilda.

"Then lie down and quit talking. How do you expect I am going to sleep?"

"Let us go and see what we can do at the Dows, Maria, to-morrow, won't you?"

But Maria either did not or would not hear; so the matter passed for that night. But the next day Matilda brought it up again. Maria found excuses to put her off. Matilda, however, was not to be put off permanently; she never forgot; and day after day the subject came up for discussion, until Maria at last consented.

"I am going because you tease me so, Tilly," she said, as they set forth from the gate. "Just for that and nothing else. I don't like it a bit."

"But you promised."

"I didn't."

"To bring in new scholars?"

"I did not promise I would bring the Dow children; and I don't believe they'll come."

The walk before the children was not long, and yet it almost took them out of the village. They passed the corner this time without turning, keeping the road, which was indeed part of the great high road which took Shadywalk in its way, as it took many another village. The houses in this direction soon began to scatter further apart from each other. They were houses of more pretension, too, with grounds and gardens and fruit trees about them; and built in styles that were notable, if not according to any particular rule. Soon the ground began to descend sharply towards the bed of a brook, which brawled along with impetuous waters towards a mill somewhere out of sight. It was a full, fine stream, mimicking the rapids and eddies of larger streams, with all their life and fury given to its smaller current. The waters looked black and wintry in contrast with the white snow of the shores. A foot-bridge spanned the brook, alongside of another bridge for carriages; and just beyond, the black walls of a ruin showed where another fine mill had once stood. That mill had been burnt. It was an old story; the girls did not so much as think about it now. Matilda's glance had gone the other way, where the stream rushed along from under the bridge and hurried down a winding glen, bordered by a road that seemed well traversed. A house could be seen down the glen, just where the road turned in company with the brook and was lost to view.

"I wonder who lives down there?" said Matilda.

"I don't know. Yes, I do, too; but I have forgotten."

"I wonder if they come to church."

"I don't know that; and I shall not go to ask them. Why, Matilda, you never cared before whether people went to church."

"Don't you care now?" was Matilda's rejoinder.

"No! I don't care. I don't know those people. They may go to fifty churches, for aught I can tell."

"But, Maria," – said her little sister.

"What?"

"I do not understand you."

"Very likely. That isn't strange."

"But, Maria, – you promised the other night – O Maria, what things you promised!"

"What then?" said Maria. "What do you mean? What did I promise?"

"You promised you would be a servant of Christ," Matilda said, anxiously.

"Well, what if I did?" said Maria. "Of course I did; what then. Am I to find out whether everybody in Shadywalk goes to church, because I promised that? It is not my business."