The picnic over, we played games until the early falling dusk, and then we went with Uncle Alec to the back field to burn the potato stalks—­the crowning delight of the day.

The stalks were in heaps all over the field, and we were allowed the privilege of setting fire to them.  ’Twas glorious!  In a few minutes the field was alight with blazing bonfires, over which rolled great, pungent clouds of smoke.  From pile to pile we ran, shrieking with delight, to poke each up with a long stick and watch the gush of rose-red sparks stream off into the night.  In what a whirl of smoke and firelight and wild, fantastic, hurtling shadows we were!

When we grew tired of our sport we went to the windward side of the field and perched ourselves on the high pole fence that skirted a dark spruce wood, full of strange, furtive sounds.  Over us was a great, dark sky, blossoming with silver stars, and all around lay dusky, mysterious reaches of meadow and wood in the soft, empurpled night.  Away to the east a shimmering silveryness beneath a palace of aerial cloud foretokened moonrise.  But directly before us the potato field, with its wreathing smoke and sullen flames, the gigantic shadow of Uncle Alec crossing and recrossing it, reminded us of Peter’s famous description of the bad place, and probably suggested the Story Girl’s remark.

“I know a story,” she said, infusing just the right shade of weirdness into her voice, “about a man who saw the devil.  Now, what’s the matter, Felicity?”

“I can never get used to the way you mention the—­the—­that name,” complained Felicity.  “To hear you speak of the Old Scratch any one would think he was just a common person.”

“Never mind.  Tell us the story,” I said curiously.

“It is about Mrs. John Martin’s uncle at Markdale,” said the Story Girl.  “I heard Uncle Roger telling it the other night.  He didn’t know I was sitting on the cellar hatch outside the window, or I don’t suppose he would have told it.  Mrs. Martin’s uncle’s name was William Cowan, and he has been dead for twenty years; but sixty years ago he was a young man, and a very wild, wicked young man.  He did everything bad he could think of, and never went to church, and he laughed at everything religious, even the devil.  He didn’t believe there was a devil at all.  One beautiful summer Sunday evening his mother pleaded with him to go to church with her, but he would not.  He told her that he was going fishing instead, and when church time came he swaggered past the church, with his fishing rod over his shoulder, singing a godless song.  Half way between the church and the harbour there was a thick spruce wood, and the path ran through it.  When William Cowan was half way through it SOMETHING came out of the wood and walked beside him.”

I have never heard anything more horribly suggestive than that innocent word “something,” as enunciated by the Story Girl.  I felt Cecily’s hand, icy cold, clutching mine.