It was a noisy dinner in comparison with the serene dulness Bessie was used to, but not noisier than it was entitled to be with seven children at table, ranging from four to fourteen, for Sunday was the one day of the week when Mr. Carnegie dined with his children, and it was his good pleasure to dine with them all.  So many bright faces and white pinafores were a sweet spectacle to Bessie, who was so merry that Totty was quite tamed by the time the dessert of ripe fruit came; and would sit on “Sissy’s” lap, and apply juicy grapes to “Sissy’s” lips—­then as “Sissy” opened them, suddenly popped the purple globes into her own little mouth, which made everybody laugh, and was evidently a good old family joke.

Dinner over, Mr. Carnegie adjourned to his study, where his practice was to make up for short and often disturbed nights by an innocent nap on Sunday afternoon.  “We will go into the drawing-room, Bessie, as we always do.  Totty says a hymn with the others now, and will soon begin to say her catechism, God bless her!” Thus Mrs. Carnegie.

Bessie had now a boy clinging to either arm.  They put her down in a corner of the sofa, their mother occupying the other, and Totty throned between them.  There was a little desultory talk and seeking of places, and then the four elder children, standing round the table, read a chapter, verse for verse.  Then followed the recitation of the catechism in that queer, mechanical gabble that Bessie recollected so well.  “If you stop to think you are sure to break down,” was still the warning.  After that Jack said the collect and epistle for the day, and Willie and Tom said the gospel, and the lesser ones said psalms and hymns and spiritual songs; and by the time this duty was accomplished Bridget had done dinner, and arrived in holiday gown and ribbons to resume her charge.  In a few minutes Bessie was left alone with her mother.  The boys went to consult a favorite pear-tree in the orchard, and as Jack was seen an hour or two later perched aloft amongst its gnarled branches with a book, it is probable that he chose that retreat to pursue undisturbed his seafaring studies by means of Marryat’s novels.

“I like to keep up old-fashioned customs, Bessie,” said her mother.  “I know the dear children have been taught their duty, and if they forget it sometimes there is always a hope they may return.  Mrs. Wiley and Lady Latimer have asked for them to attend the Bible classes, but their father was strongly against it; and I think, with him, that if they are not quite so cleverly taught at home, there is a feeling in having learnt at their mother’s knees which will stay by them longer.  It is growing quite common for young ladies in Beechhurst to have classes in the evening for servant-girls and others, but I cannot say I favor them:  the girls get together gossipping and stopping out late, and the teachers are so set up with notions of superior piety that they are quite spoilt.  And they do break out in the ugliest hats and clothes—­faster than the gayest of the young ladies who don’t pretend to be so over-righteous.  You have not fallen into that way, dear Bessie?”