But your soul is sweet, my dear, and the wilderness blossoms
where you set your feet. There is nothing to blush about. It's no credit
to you, but to God."
Isabel hated this sort of thing. It seemed to her as if her soul was
being dragged out of a cool thicket from the green shadow and the
flowers, and set, stripped, in the high road.
Another time Miss Corbet spoke yet more plainly.
"You are a Catholic at heart, my dear; or you would be if you knew what
the Religion was. But your father, good man, has never understood it
himself; and so you don't know it either. What you think about us, my
dear, is as much like the truth as--as--I am like a saint, or you like a
sinner. I'll be bound now that you think us all idolaters!"
Isabel had to confess that she did think something of the sort.
"There, now, what did I say? Why haven't either of those two old nuns at
the Hall taught you any better?"
"They--they don't talk to me about religion."
"Ah! I see; or the Puritan father would withdraw his lamb from the
wolves. But if they are wolves, my dear, you must confess that they have
the decency to wear sheep's clothing, and that the disguise is
excellent."
And so it gradually came about that Isabel began to learn an immense deal
about what the Catholics really believed--far more than she had ever
learnt in all her life before from the ladies at the Hall, who were
unwilling to teach her, and her father, who was unable.
About half-way through Miss Corbet's visit, Anthony came home.
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