“Oh, whoever’s licked will have to give in about the praying,” said Peter. “That’s fair enough. If I’m licked I won’t pray for that particular thing any more.” “It’s dreadful to fight about anything so religious as praying,” sighed poor Cecily. “Why, they were always fighting about religion in old times,” said Felix. “The more religious anything was the more fighting there was about it.” “A fellow’s got a right to pray as he pleases,” said Peter, “and if anybody tries to stop him he’s bound to fight. That’s my way of looking at it.” “What would Miss Marwood say if she knew you were going to fight?” asked Felicity. Miss Marwood was Felix’ Sunday School teacher and he was very fond of her. But by this time Felix was quite reckless. “I don’t care what she would say,” he retorted. Felicity tried another tack. “You’ll be sure to get whipped if you fight with Peter,” she said. “You’re too fat to fight.” After that, no moral force on earth could have prevented Felix from fighting. He would have faced an army with banners. “You might settle it by drawing lots,” said Cecily desperately. “Drawing lots is wickeder that fighting,” said Dan. “It’s a kind of gambling.” “What would Aunt Jane say if she knew you were going to fight?” Cecily demanded of Peter. “Don’t you drag my Aunt Jane into this affair,” said Peter darkly. “You said you were going to be a Presbyterian,” persisted Cecily. “Good Presbyterians don’t fight.” “Oh, don’t they! I heard your Uncle Roger say that Presbyterians were the best for fighting in the world--or the worst, I forget which he said, but it means the same thing.” Cecily had but one more shot in her locker. “I thought you said in your sermon, Master Peter, that people shouldn’t fight.” “I said they oughtn’t to fight for fun, or for bad temper,” retorted Peter. “This is different. I know what I’m fighting for but I can’t think of the word.” “I guess you mean principle,” I suggested. “Yes, that’s it,” agreed Peter. “It’s all right to fight for principle. It’s kind of praying with your fists.” “Oh, can’t you do something to prevent them from fighting, Sara?” pleaded Cecily, turning to the Story Girl, who was sitting on a bin, swinging her shapely bare feet to and fro. “It doesn’t do to meddle in an affair of this kind between boys,” said the Story Girl sagely. I may be mistaken, but I do not believe the Story Girl wanted that fight stopped. And I am far from being sure that Felicity did either. It was ultimately arranged that the combat should take place in the fir wood behind Uncle Roger’s granary. It was a nice, remote, bosky place where no prowling grown-up would be likely to intrude. And thither we all resorted at sunset. “I hope Felix will beat,” said the Story Girl to me, “not only for the family honour, but because that was a mean, mean prayer of Peter’s. Do you think he will?”