“He can hardly write,” said Felicity.

“William the Conqueror couldn’t write at all,” said the Story Girl crushingly.

“He never goes to church, and he never says his prayers,” retorted Felicity, uncrushed.

“I do, too,” said Peter himself, suddenly appearing through a little gap in the hedge.  “I say my prayers sometimes.”

This Peter was a slim, shapely fellow, with laughing black eyes and thick black curls.  Early in the season as it was, he was barefooted.  His attire consisted of a faded, gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers; but he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed than he really was.

“You don’t pray very often,” insisted Felicity.

“Well, God will be all the more likely to listen to me if I don’t pester Him all the time,” argued Peter.

This was rank heresy to Felicity, but the Story Girl looked as if she thought there might be something in it.

“You never go to church, anyhow,” continued Felicity, determined not to be argued down.

“Well, I ain’t going to church till I’ve made up my mind whether I’m going to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian.  Aunt Jane was a Methodist.  My mother ain’t much of anything but I mean to be something.  It’s more respectable to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian, or something, than not to be anything.  When I’ve settled what I’m to be I’m going to church same as you.”

“That’s not the same as being born something,” said Felicity loftily.

“I think it’s a good deal better to pick your own religion than have to take it just because it was what your folks had,” retorted Peter.

“Now, never mind quarrelling,” said Cecily.  “You leave Peter alone, Felicity.  Peter, this is Beverley King, and this is Felix.  And we’re all going to be good friends and have a lovely summer together.  Think of the games we can have!  But if you go squabbling you’ll spoil it all.  Peter, what are you going to do to-day?”

“Harrow the wood field and dig your Aunt Olivia’s flower beds.”

“Aunt Olivia and I planted sweet peas yesterday,” said the Story Girl, “and I planted a little bed of my own.  I am not going to dig them up this year to see if they have sprouted.  It is bad for them.  I shall try to cultivate patience, no matter how long they are coming up.”

“I am going to help mother plant the vegetable garden to-day,” said Felicity.

“Oh, I never like the vegetable garden,” said the Story Girl.  “Except when I am hungry.  Then I do like to go and look at the nice little rows of onions and beets.  But I love a flower garden.  I think I could be always good if I lived in a garden all the time.”

“Adam and Eve lived in a garden all the time,” said Felicity, “and they were far from being always good.”