Betty, the vanquished one, stared solemnly in front of her, not
deigning to notice Hugh's triumph. What pleasure is there to
children in sitting next to some particular person in church? I
remember, as a child, it was a matter of earnest prayer during the
week that on Sunday I might sit next, some particular person in
church. "And, O Lord, if it be for my good, let me sit next the
door." A child's religion is a very real thing to him, and not
only a Saturday-to-Monday thing.

I looked at Betty's serious little face and wished that I could
for one moment read her thoughts. Her eyes, such lovely eyes,
were fixed on the preacher's face. What did his sermon convey to
her? It was a particularly uninteresting one, I remember, an
appeal on behalf of the curates' fund. Her eyes never left his
face -- such solemn, searching, truthful eyes. I think a child
like Betty should not be allowed to go to church on such
occasions, for what is the use of preaching against matrimony on
the one hand, and that, I suppose, is what the moral of such a
sermon should be, -- and on the other hand holding up an incentive
to matrimony in the very alluring shape of Betty? For,
personally, I think Betty would be a very wonderful possession for
any curate to have.

Hugh was growing restless and I was bearing the brunt of it.
Nannie, feeling for me, leaned over from the back pew and said,
"Don't rest your head on your Aunt Woggles."

"I came to church on purpose to rest my head on my Aunt Woggles's
chest," said Hugh, again in what he calls a whisper. A moment