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"You don't know," replied Ursula, superior Nevertheless, she

wavered And her song faded down before she cah she did not know it, her Sunday was very

precious to her She found herself in a strange, undefined

place, where her spirit could wander in dreams, unassailed

The white-robed spirit of Christ passed between olive trees

It was a vision, not a reality And she herself partook of the

visionary being There was the voice in the night calling,

"Saht But

not this night, nor last night, but in the unfathoht of

Sunday, of the Sabbath silence

There was Sin, the serpent, in as also wisdom There

was Judas with the money and the kiss

But there was no actual Sin If Ursula slapped Theresa

across the face, even on a Sunday, that was not Sin, the

everlasting It was misbehaviour If Billy played truant from

Sunday school, he was bad, he icked, but he was not a

Sinner

Sin was absolute and everlasting: wickedness and badness were

teon, called Cassie a "sinner", everybody detested him Yet

when there came to the Marsh a flippetty-floppetty foxhound

puppy, he was wens shrank froion to their

own immediate actions They wanted the sense of the eternal and

immortal, not a list of rules for everyday conduct Therefore

they were badly-behaved children, headstrong and arrogant,