“Well, don’t whistle on Sunday anyhow,” said Felicity severely. “I don’t see a thing about Methodists or Presbyterians, as far as I’ve gone, and I’m most through Exodus,” said Peter suddenly. “When does it begin to tell about them?” “There’s nothing about Methodists or Presbyterians in the Bible,” said Felicity scornfully. Peter looked amazed. “Well, how did they happen then?” he asked. “When did they begin to be?” “I’ve often thought it such a strange thing that there isn’t a word about either of them in the Bible,” said Cecily. “Especially when it mentions Baptists--or at least one Baptist.” “Well, anyhow,” said Peter, “even if it isn’t the Judgment Day I’m going to keep on reading the Bible until I’ve got clean through. I never thought it was such an int’resting book.” “It sounds simply dreadful to hear you call the Bible an interesting book,” said Felicity, with a shudder at the sacrilege. “Why, you might be talking about ANY common book.” “I didn’t mean any harm,” said Peter, crestfallen. “The Bible IS an interesting book,” said the Story Girl, coming to Peter’s rescue. “And there are magnificent stories in it--yes, Felicity, MAGNIFICENT. If the world doesn’t come to an end I’ll tell you the story of Ruth next Sunday--or look here! I’ll tell it anyhow. That’s a promise. Wherever we are next Sunday I’ll tell you about Ruth.” “Why, you wouldn’t tell stories in heaven,” said Cecily, in a very timid voice. “Why not?” said the Story Girl, with a flash of her eyes. “Indeed I shall. I’ll tell stories as long as I’ve a tongue to talk with, or any one to listen.” Ay, doubtless. That dauntless spirit would soar triumphantly above the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds, taking with it all its own wild sweetness and daring. Even the young-eyed cherubim, choiring on meadows of asphodel, might cease their harping for a time to listen to a tale of the vanished earth, told by that golden tongue. Some vague thought of this was in our minds as we looked at her; and somehow it comforted us. Not even the Judgment was so greatly to be feared if after it we were the SAME, our own precious little identities unchanged. “It must be getting handy two,” said Cecily. “It seems as if we’d been waiting here for ever so much longer than an hour.” Conversation languished. We watched and waited nervously. The moments dragged by, each seeming an hour. Would two o’clock never come and end the suspense? We all became very tense. Even Peter had to stop reading. Any unaccustomed sound or sight in the world about us struck on our taut senses like the trump of doom. A cloud passed over the sun and as the sudden shadow swept across the orchard we turned pale and trembled. A wagon rumbling over a plank bridge in the hollow made Sara Ray start up with a shriek. The slamming of a barn door over at Uncle Roger’s caused the cold perspiration to break out on our faces.