"When we're to think, and when we're not to think," she answered.
I remember all of this conversation because of what came so soon after.
"If the known duty of to-morrow depends on the work of to-day," I answered,
"if it cannot be done right except you think about it and lay your plans
for it, then that thought is to-day's business, not to-morrow's."
"Dear papa, some of your explanations are more difficult than the things
themselves. May I be as impertinent as I like on my birthday?" she asked
suddenly, again looking up in my face.
We were walking now, and she had a hold of my horse's mane, so as to keep
her pony close up.
"Yes, my dear, as impertinent as you like--not an atom more, mind."
"Well, papa, I sometimes wish you wouldn't explain things so much. I seem
to understand you all the time you are preaching, but when I try the text
afterwards by myself, I can't make anything of it, and I've forgotten every
word you said about it."
"Perhaps that is because you have no right to understand it."
"I thought all Protestants had a right to understand every word of the
Bible," she returned.
"If they can," I rejoined.
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