Sunday morning, as she lounged on the sofa of her sitting room, when,
upon her looking out towards the lawn in front, she perceived Paul and
Bridget kneeling by a seat, at the foot of a large wild plum tree that
stood at the end of the green plot in front of the house, and that had
its branches bent within a few feet of the ground by the embraces of a
rich grape vine that for years had grown around it and impeded its
development. For a few moments she watched the movements of the orphans
as they smote their breasts at the "Confiteor," or bowed their heads at
the "Sanctus," accompanying the priests who, they knew, in thousands of
churches, were engaged in offering sacrifice to God; and reading the
"Prayers at Mass" out of the Key of Heaven manual of devotion.

Instead of admiring this sincerity of devotion, or giving thanks to God
for the grace of fidelity and piety that his mercy had vouchsafed to
these children of grace, Amanda, as if she could not endure the sight of
such happiness, or mortified at the miscarriage of her vain attempts to
rob these innocent hearts of the treasure of true faith and piety which
they possessed, still pale with rage in consequence of her ruminations
about her own misfortune, the ill-tempered old maid there and then
resolved to try another and a severer plan to effect her purpose of
proselytism.

"Confound yer impudence, ye little Popish paupers!" she said to herself.
"I shall soon make ye give up these superstitious practices. Paul, Paul,
dear," she said, tapping at the window, "come in out of that, come in
Bridget, ye little fools; the sun will spoil yer features, cover ye with
tan."

"Yes, miss, in a few minutes; we are just finishing," said Paul.