s easy as you might think," avowed Peter, out of
his own experience.

"I think Grandmother King intended the last of the epitaph to be in
blank verse," said Felicity with dignity.

There was still only a sprinkling of people in the church when we went
in and took our places in the old-fashioned, square King pew. We had
just got comfortably settled when Felicity said in an agitated whisper,
"Here is Peg Bowen!"

We all stared at Peg, who was pacing composedly up the aisle. We might
be excused for so doing, for seldom were the decorous aisles of Carlisle
church invaded by such a figure. Peg was dressed in her usual short
drugget skirt, rather worn and frayed around the bottom, and a waist
of brilliant turkey red calico. She wore no hat, and her grizzled black
hair streamed in elf locks over her shoulders. Face, arms and feet
were bare--and face, arms and feet were liberally powdered with
FLOUR. Certainly no one who saw Peg that night could ever forget the
apparition.

Peg's black eyes, in which shone a more than usually wild and fitful
light, roved scrutinizingly over the church, then settled on our pew.

"She's coming here," whispered Felicity in horror. "Can't we spread out
and make her think the pew is full?"

But the manoeuvre was too late. The only result was that Felicity and
the Story Girl in moving over left a vacant space between them and Peg
promptly plumped down in it.

"Well, I'm here," she remarked aloud. "I did say once I'd never darken
the door of Carlisle church again, but what that boy there"--nodding
at Peter--"said last winter set me thinking, and I concluded maybe I'd
better come once in a while, to be on the safe side."

Those poor girls were in an agony. Everybody in the church was looking
at our pew and smiling. We all felt that we were terribly disgraced; but
we could do nothing. Peg was enjoying herself hugely, beyond all doubt.
From where she sat she could see the whole church, including pulpit and
gallery, and her black eyes darted over it with restless glances.

"Bless me, there's Sam Kinnaird," she exclaimed, still aloud. "He's
the man that dunned Jacob Marr for four cents on the church steps one
Sunday. I heard him. 'I think, Jacob, you owe me four cents on that cow
you bought last fall. Rec'llect you couldn't make the change?' Well, you
know, 'twould a-made a cat laugh. The Kinnairds were all mighty close, I
can tell you. That's how they got rich."

What Sam Kinnaird felt or thou