But the culminating horror of the day was yet to come.

After evening church--and there really was a sense of escape and peace in the old church, even though we could not make out the sermon--after evening church, we were all taken up to Miss Henniker's parlour, and there doomed to sit perfectly still for a whole hour, while she read aloud something by one of the very old masters.

Oh, the agony of those Sunday evenings! I have sat fascinated by that awful voice, with a cramp in my leg that I dared not stir to relieve, or a tickling in the small of my back from which there was no escape, or a cobweb on my face I had not the courage to brush away.

I have felt sleep taking possession of me, yet daring neither to yawn, nor nod my head, nor wink my eyes.

I have stared fixedly at the gas, or the old china ornament on the mantelpiece, till my eyes became watery with the effort and I have suffered all the tortures of a cold in the head without the possibility either of sniffing or clearing my throat! It made no difference to Miss Henniker that she was reading aloud.