“Isn’t she one still?” asked Felicity pertly. “Well, I don’t know exactly. She’s dead,” said Peter rebukingly. “Do people go on being just the same after they’re dead?” “No, of course not. They’re angels then--not Methodists or anything, but just angels. That is, if they go to heaven.” “S’posen they went to the other place?” But Felicity’s theology broke down at this point. She turned her back on Peter and walked disdainfully away. The Story Girl returned to the main point with a new argument. “We have such a lovely minister, Peter. He looks just like the picture of St. John my father sent me, only he is old and his hair is white. I know you’d like him. And even if you are going to be a Methodist it won’t hurt you to go to the Presbyterian church. The nearest Methodist church is six miles away, at Markdale, and you can’t attend there just now. Go to the Presbyterian church until you’re old enough to have a horse.” “But s’posen I got too fond of being Presbyterian and couldn’t change if I wanted to?” objected Peter. Altogether, the Story Girl had a hard time of it; but she persevered; and one day she came to us with the announcement that Peter had yielded. “He’s going to church with us to-morrow,” she said triumphantly. We were out in Uncle Roger’s hill pasture, sitting on some smooth, round stones under a clump of birches. Behind us was an old gray fence, with violets and dandelions thick in its corners. Below us was the Carlisle valley, with its orchard-embowered homesteads, and fertile meadows. Its upper end was dim with a delicate spring mist. Winds blew up the field like wave upon wave of sweet savour--spice of bracken and balsam. We were eating little jam “turnovers,” which Felicity had made for us. Felicity’s turnovers were perfection. I looked at her and wondered why it was not enough that she should be so pretty and capable of making such turnovers. If she were only more interesting! Felicity had not a particle of the nameless charm and allurement which hung about every motion of the Story Girl, and made itself manifest in her lightest word and most careless glance. Ah well, one cannot have every good gift! The Story Girl had no dimples at her slim, brown wrists. We all enjoyed our turnovers except Sara Ray. She ate hers but she knew she should not have done so. Her mother did not approve of snacks between meals, or of jam turnovers at any time. Once, when Sara was in a brown study, I asked her what she was thinking of. “I’m trying to think of something ma hasn’t forbid,” she answered with a sigh. We were all glad to hear that Peter was going to church, except Felicity. She was full of gloomy forebodings and warnings. “I’m surprised at you, Felicity King,” said Cecily severely. “You ought to be glad that poor boy is going to get started in the right way.” “There’s a great big patch on his best pair of trousers,” protested Felicity.