Anne’s eyes marveled.
“Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I’m sure I didn’t mean to be irreverent.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you did—but it doesn’t sound right to talk so familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when I send you after something you’re to bring it at once and not fall into mooning and imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right to the kitchen. Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off by heart.”
Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms she had brought in to decorate the dinner table—Marilla had eyed that decoration askance, but had said nothing—propped her chin on her hands, and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes.
“I like this,” she announced at length. “It’s beautiful. I’ve heard it before—I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday-school say it over once. But I didn’t like it then. He had such a cracked voice and he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a disagreeable duty. This isn’t poetry, but it makes me feel just the same way poetry does. ‘Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.’ That is just like a line of music. Oh, I’m so glad you thought of making me learn this, Miss—Marilla.”
“Well, learn it and hold your tongue,” said Marilla shortly.