reflecting whether such answer might not make me unduly conceited.
Eventually she must have decided to run that risk; other opportunities
could be relied upon for neutralising the effect.

"Oh, from Heaven."

"But I thought Heaven was a place where you went to," I answered; "not
where you comed from." I know I said "comed," for I remember that at
this period my irregular verbs were a bewildering anxiety to my poor
mother. "Comed" and "goned," which I had worked out for myself, were
particular favourites of mine.

Mrs. Fursey passed over my grammar in dignified silence. She had been
pointedly requested not to trouble herself with that part of my
education, my mother holding that diverging opinions upon the same
subject only confused a child.

"You came from Heaven," repeated Mrs. Fursey, "and you'll go to
Heaven--if you're good."

"Do all little boys and girls come from Heaven?"

"So they say." Mrs. Fursey's tone implied that she was stating what
might possibly be but a popular fallacy, for which she individually
took no responsibility.

"And did you come from Heaven, Mrs. Fursey?" Mrs. Fursey's reply to
this was decidedly more emphatic.

"Of course I did. Where do you think I came from?"