The dusk crept into the orchard like a dim, bewitching personality.  You could see her—­feel her—­hear her.  She tiptoed softly from tree to tree, ever drawing nearer.  Presently her filmy wings hovered over us and through them gleamed the early stars of the autumn night.

The grown-ups rose reluctantly and strolled away; but we children lingered for a moment to talk over an idea the Story Girl broached—­a good idea, we thought enthusiastically, and one that promised to add considerable spice to life.

We were on the lookout for some new amusement.  Dream books had begun to pall.  We no longer wrote in them very regularly, and our dreams were not what they used to be before the mischance of the cucumber.  So the Story Girl’s suggestion came pat to the psychological moment.

’I’ve thought of a splendid plan,” she said.  “It just flashed into my mind when the uncles were talking about Uncle Edward.  And the beauty of it is we can play it on Sundays, and you know there are so few things it is proper to play on Sundays.  But this is a Christian game, so it will be all right.”

“It isn’t like the religious fruit basket game, is it?” asked Cecily anxiously.

We had good reason to hope that it wasn’t.  One desperate Sunday afternoon, when we had nothing to read and the time seemed endless, Felix had suggested that we have a game of fruit-basket; only instead of taking the names of fruits, we were to take the names of Bible characters.  This, he argued, would make it quite lawful and proper to play on Sunday.  We, too desirous of being convinced, also thought so; and for a merry hour Lazarus and Martha and Moses and Aaron and sundry other worthies of Holy Writ had a lively time of it in the King orchard.  Peter having a Scriptural name of his own, did not want to take another; but we would not allow this, because it would give him an unfair advantage over the rest of us.  It would be so much easier to call out your own name than fit your tongue to an unfamiliar one.  So Peter retaliated by choosing Nebuchadnezzar, which no one could ever utter three times before Peter shrieked it out once.

In the midst of our hilarity, however, Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet came down upon us.  It is best to draw a veil over what followed.  Suffice it to say that the recollection gave point to Cecily’s question.

“No, it isn’t that sort of game at all,” said the Story Girl.  “It is this; each of you boys must preach a sermon, as Uncle Edward used to do.  One of you next Sunday, and another the next, and so on.  And whoever preaches the best sermon is to get a prize.”

Dan promptly declared he wouldn’t try to preach a sermon; but Peter, Felix and I thought the suggestion a very good one.  Secretly, I believed I could cut quite a fine figure preaching a sermon.

“Who’ll give the prize?” asked Felix.

“I will,” said the Story Girl.  “I’ll give that picture father sent me last week.”