you would not say that our Lord was not a
gentleman."

"Dear Miss Courtenay, forgive me, but what very odd things you say!
And--excuse me--don't you know it is not thought at all good taste to
quote the Bible in polite society?"

"Is the Bible worse off for that?" said I. "Or is it the polite
society? The best society, I suppose, ought to be in Heaven: and I
fancy they do not shut out the Bible there. What think you?"

"Are you very innocent?" she answered, laughing; "or are you only making
believe? You must know, surely, that religion is not talked about
except from the pulpit, and on Sundays."

"But can we all be sure of dying on a Sunday?" I answered. "We shall
want religion then, shall we not?"

"Hush! we don't talk of dying either--it is too shocking!"

"But don't we do it sometimes?" I said.

Miss Newton looked as if she did not know whether to laugh or be angry--
certainly very much disturbed.

"Let us talk of something more agreeable, I beg," said she. "See, Miss
Bracewell is going to sing."

"Oh, she will sing nothing worth listening to," said I.

"I suppose you think only Methodist hymns worth listening to," responded
Miss Newton, rather sneeringly.

I don't like to be sneered at. I suppose nobody does. But it does not
make me feel timid and yield, as it seems to do many: it only makes me
angry.

"Well," said I, "listen how much this is worth."

Amelia drew off her gloves with a listless air which I believe she
thought exceedingly genteel. I cannot undertake to describe her song:
it was one of those queer lackadaisical ditties which always remind me
of those tunes which go just where you don't expect them to go, and end
nowhere. I hate them. And I don't like the songs much better. Of
course there was a lady wringing her hands--why do people in ballads
wring their hands so much? I never saw anybody do it in my life--and a
cavalier on a coal-black steed, and a silvery moon; what would become of
the songwriters if there were no moon and no sea?--and "she sat and
wailed," and he did something or other, I could not exactly hear what;
and at last he, or she, or both of them (only that would not suit the
grammar) "was at rest," and I was thankful to hear it, for Amelia
stopped singing.

"How sweet and sad!" said Miss Newton.

"Do you like that kind of song? I think it is rubbish."

She laughed with that little deprecating air which she often uses to me.
I looked up to see who was