It
was pleasant, after all the hubbub of the morning, to have a
little quiet time that seemed like Sunday; and the sweet Bible
words came, as they often now came to Ellen, with a healing
breath. But after half an hour or so, to her dismay she heard
a door open, and the whole gang of children come trooping into
the hall below, where they soon made such a noise that reading
or thinking was out of the question.
"What a bother it is that one can't play games on a Sunday!"
said Marianne Gillespie.
"One _can_ play games on a Sunday," answered her brother.
"Where's the odds? It's all Sunday's good for, _I_ think."
"William! — William!" sounded the shocked voice of little
Ellen Chauncey — "you are a real wicked boy!"
"Well, now!" said William, "how am I wicked? Now say — I
should like to know. How is it any more wicked for us to play
games than it is for Aunt Sophia to lie a-bed and sleep, or
for Uncle Howard to read novels, or for Grandpa to talk
politics, or for mother to talk about the fashions? — there
were she and Miss What's-her-name for ever so long this
morning doing everything but _make_ a dress. Now which is the
worst?"
"Oh, William! William! — for shame! for shame!" said little
Ellen again.
"Do hush, Ellen Chauncey, will you?" said Marianne, sharply; —
"and you had better hush too, William, if you know what is
good for yourself.
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