Resolutely she told herself that Peter was at perfect liberty to fall in love with Meg if he liked, and set herself to listen intelligently to the Vicar's sermon. * * * * * Meg started to put her children to bed, only to find that her fertility of imagination in the afternoon was to prove her undoing in the evening; for her memory was by no means as reliable as her powers of invention. Little Fay urgently demanded the whole cycle of little Mophez' dleams over again. And for the life of her Meg couldn't remember them either in their proper substance or sequence--and this in spite of the most persistent prompting, and she failed utterly to reproduce the entertainment of the afternoon. Both children were disappointed, but little Fay, accustomed as she was to Auntie Jan's undeviating method of narrating "Clipture," was angry as well. She fell into a passion of rage and nearly screamed the house down. Since the night of Ayah's departure there had not been such a scene. Poor Meg vowed (though she knew she would break her vow the very first time she was tempted) that never again would she tamper with Holy Writ, and for some weeks she coldly avoided both Jophez and Mophez as topics of conversation. Meg could never resist playing at things, and what "Clipture" the children learned from Jan in the morning they insisted on enacting with Meg later in the day. Sometimes she was seized with misgiving as to the propriety of these representations, but dismissed her doubts as cowardly. "After all," she explained to Jan, "we only play the very human bits. I never let them pretend to be anybody divine ... and you know the people--in the Old Testament, anyway--were most of them extremely human, not to say disreputable at times." It is possible that "Clipture's" supreme attraction for the children was that it conveyed the atmosphere of the familiar East. The New Testament was more difficult to play at, but, being equally dramatic, the children couldn't see it. "Can't we do one teeny miracle?" Tony would beseech, but Meg was firm; she would have nothing to do with either miracles nor yet with angels. Little Fay ardently desired to be an angel, but Meg wouldn't have it at any price. "You're not in the least _like_ an angel, you know," she said severely. "What for?" "Because angels are _perfectly_ good." "I could _pletend_ to be puffectly good." "Let's play Johnny Baptist," suggested the ever-helpful Tony, "and we could pittend to bring in his head on a charger." "Certainly not," Meg said hastily. "That would be a horrid game." "Let me be the daughter!" little Fay implored, "and dance in flont of Helod."