y times seven, so surely I can forgive a
little, too?' 'Well,' I says, desperate-like, 'the truth is, father, I'm
a Presbyterian. I made up my mind last summer, the time of the Judgment
Day, that I'd be a Presbyterian, and I've got to stick to it. I'm sorry
I can't be a Methodist, like you and mother and Aunt Jane, but I can't
and that's all there is to it,' I says. Then I waited, scared-like. But
father, he just looked relieved and he says, says he, 'Goodness, boy,
you can be a Presbyterian or anything else you like, so long as it's
Protestant. I'm not caring,' he says. 'The main thing is that you must
be good and do what's right.' I tell you," concluded Peter emphatically,
"father is a Christian all right."

"Well, I suppose your mind will be at rest now," said Felicity. "What's
that you have in your buttonhole?"

"That's a four-leaved clover," answered Peter exultantly. "That means
good luck for the summer. I found it in Markdale. There ain't much
clover in Carlisle this year of any kind of leaf. The crop is going to
be a failure. Your Uncle Roger says it's because there ain't enough
old maids in Carlisle. There's lots of them in Markdale, and that's the
reason, he says, why they always have such good clover crops there."

"What on earth have old maids to do with it?" cried Cecily.

"I don't believe they've a single thing to do with it, but Mr. Roger
says they have, and he says a man called Darwin proved it. This is the
rigmarole he got off to me the other day. The clover crop depends on
there being plenty of bumble-bees, because they are the only insects
with tongues long enough to--to--fer--fertilize--I think he called it
the blossoms. But mice eat bumble-bees and cats eat mice and old maids
keep cats. So your Uncle Roger says the more old maids the more cats,
and the more cats the fewer field-mice, and the fewer field-mice the
more bumble-bees, and the more bumble-bees the better clover crops."

"So don't worry if you do get to be old maids, girls," said Dan.
"Remember, you'll be helping the clover crops."

"I never heard such stuff as you boys talk," said Felicity, "and Uncle
Roger is no better."

"There comes the Story Girl," cried Cecily eagerly. "Now we'll hear all
about Beautiful Alice's home."

The Story Girl was bombarded with eager questions as soon as she
arrived. Miss Reade's home was a dream of a place, it appeared. The
house was just covered with ivy and there was a most delightful old
garden-