ers, and
are oftener discussed. The time we bought God's picture from Jerry
Cowan--the time Dan ate the poison berries--the time we heard the
ghostly bell ring--the bewitchment of Paddy--the visit of the Governor's
wife--and the night we were lost in the storm--all awaken reminiscent
jest and laughter; but none more than the recollection of the Sunday
Peg Bowen came to church and sat in our pew. Though goodness knows, as
Felicity would say, we did not think it any matter for laughter at the
time--far from it.

It was one Sunday evening in July. Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet, having
been out to the morning service, did not attend in the evening, and we
small fry walked together down the long hill road, wearing Sunday attire
and trying, more or less successfully, to wear Sunday faces also. Those
walks to church, through the golden completeness of the summer evenings,
were always very pleasant to us, and we never hurried, though, on the
other hand, we were very careful not to be late.

This particular evening was particularly beautiful. It was cool after a
hot day, and wheat fields all about us were ripening to their harvestry.
The wind gossiped with the grasses along our way, and over them the
buttercups danced, goldenly-glad. Waves of sinuous shadow went over the
ripe hayfields, and plundering bees sang a freebooting lilt in wayside
gardens.

"The world is so lovely tonight," said the Story Girl. "I just hate the
thought of going into the church and shutting all the sunlight and music
outside. I wish we could have the service outside in summer."

"I don't think that would be very religious," said Felicity.

"I'd feel ever so much more religious outside than in," retorted the
Story Girl.

"If the service was outside we'd have to sit in the graveyard and that
wouldn't be very cheerful," said Felix.

"Besides, the music isn't shut out," added Felicity. "The choir is
inside."

"'Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,'" quoted Peter, who was
getting into the habit of adorning his conversation with similar gems.
"That's in one of Shakespeare's plays. I'm reading them now, since I got
through with the Bible. They're great."

"I don't see when you get time to read them," said Felicity.

"Oh, I read them Sunday afternoons when I'm home."

"I don't believe they're fit to read on Sundays," exclaimed Felicity.
"Mother says Valeria Montague's stories ain't."

"But Shakespeare's different from Valeria," protested Peter