“Peter is splendid. His mother lives on the Markdale road and washes for a living. Peter’s father ran away and left them when Peter was only three years old. He has never come back, and they don’t know whether he is alive or dead. Isn’t that a nice way to behave to your family? Peter has worked for his board ever since he was six. Uncle Roger sends him to school, and pays him wages in summer. We all like Peter, except Felicity.” “I like Peter well enough in his place,” said Felicity primly, “but you make far too much of him, mother says. He is only a hired boy, and he hasn’t been well brought up, and hasn’t much education. I don’t think you should make such an equal of him as you do.” Laughter rippled over the Story Girl’s face as shadow waves go over ripe wheat before a wind. “Peter is a real gentleman, and he is more interesting than YOU could ever be, if you were brought up and educated for a hundred years,” she said. “He can hardly write,” said Felicity. “William the Conqueror couldn’t write at all,” said the Story Girl crushingly. “He never goes to church, and he never says his prayers,” retorted Felicity, uncrushed. “I do, too,” said Peter himself, suddenly appearing through a little gap in the hedge. “I say my prayers sometimes.” This Peter was a slim, shapely fellow, with laughing black eyes and thick black curls. Early in the season as it was, he was barefooted. His attire consisted of a faded, gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers; but he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed than he really was. “You don’t pray very often,” insisted Felicity. “Well, God will be all the more likely to listen to me if I don’t pester Him all the time,” argued Peter. This was rank heresy to Felicity, but the Story Girl looked as if she thought there might be something in it. “You NEVER go to church, anyhow,” continued Felicity, determined not to be argued down. “Well, I ain’t going to church till I’ve made up my mind whether I’m going to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian. Aunt Jane was a Methodist. My mother ain’t much of anything but I mean to be something. It’s more respectable to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian, or SOMETHING, than not to be anything. When I’ve settled what I’m to be I’m going to church same as you.” “That’s not the same as being BORN something,” said Felicity loftily. “I think it’s a good deal better to pick your own religion than have to take it just because it was what your folks had,” retorted Peter. “Now, never mind quarrelling,” said Cecily. “You leave Peter alone, Felicity. Peter, this is Beverley King, and this is Felix. And we’re all going to be good friends and have a lovely summer together. Think of the games we can have! But if you go squabbling you’ll spoil it all. Peter, what are you going to do to-day?” “Harrow the wood field and dig your Aunt Olivia’s flower beds.”