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“I do wish St. Clare ever would go to church,” said Marie; “but he hasn’t a particle of religion about him. It really isn’t respectable.” “I know it,” said St. Clare. “You ladies go to church to learn how to get along in the world, I suppose, and your piety sheds respectability on us. If I did go at all, I would go where Mammy goes; there’s something to keep a fellow awake there, at least.” “What! those shouting Methodists? Horrible!” said Marie. “Anything but the dead sea of your respectable churches, Marie. Positively, it’s too much to ask of a man. Eva, do you like to go? Come, stay at home and play with me.” “Thank you, papa; but I’d rather go to church.” “Isn’t it dreadful tiresome?” said St. Clare. “I think it is tiresome, some,” said Eva; “and I am sleepy, too, but I try to keep awake.” “What do you go for, then?” “Why, you know, papa,” she said, in a whisper, “cousin told me that God wants to have us; and He gives us everything, you know; and it isn’t much to do it, if He wants us to. It isn’t so very tiresome, after all.” “You sweet, little obliging soul!” said St. Clare, kissing her; “go along, that’s a good girl, and pray for me.” |