f maiden coyness. If she hated him so intensely that
she would rather write that note on the blackboard than sit with him,
what use was it to sigh like a furnace longer for her? Mr. Perkins had
blighted love's young dream for Cyrus with a killing frost. Thenceforth
sweet Cecily kept the noiseless tenor of her way unvexed by the
attentions of enamoured swains.

CHAPTER XVI. AUNT UNA'S STORY

Felicity, and Cecily, Dan, Felix, Sara Ray and I were sitting one
evening on the mossy stones in Uncle Roger's hill pasture, where we had
sat the morning the Story Girl told us the tale of the Wedding Veil of
the Proud Princess. But it was evening now and the valley beneath us was
brimmed up with the glow of the afterlight. Behind us, two tall, shapely
spruce trees rose up against the sunset, and through the dark oriel of
their sundered branches an evening star looked down. We sat on a little
strip of emerald grassland and before us was a sloping meadow all white
with daisies.

We were waiting for Peter and the Story Girl. Peter had gone to Markdale
after dinner to spend the afternoon with his reunited parents because
it was his birthday. He had left us grimly determined to confess to his
father the dark secret of his Presbyterianism, and we were anxious to
know what the result had been. The Story Girl had gone that morning
with Miss Reade to visit the latter's home near Charlottetown, and we
expected soon to see her coming gaily along over the fields from the
Armstrong place.

Presently Peter came jauntily stepping along the field path up the hill.

"Hasn't Peter got tall?" said Cecily.

"Peter is growing to be a very fine looking boy," decreed Felicity.

"I notice he's got ever so much handsomer since his father came home,"
said Dan, with a killing sarcasm that was wholly lost on Felicity, who
gravely responded that she supposed it was because Peter felt so much
freer from care and responsibility.

"What luck, Peter?" yelled Dan, as soon as Peter was within earshot.

"Everything's all right," he shouted jubilantly. "I told father right
off, licketty-split, as soon as I got home," he added when he reached
us. "I was anxious to have it over with. I says, solemn-like, 'Dad,
there's something I've got to tell you, and I don't know how you'll take
it, but it can't be helped,' I says. Dad looked pretty sober, and he
says, says he, 'What have you been up to, Peter? Don't be afraid to tell
me. I've been forgiven to sevent