“Why not?  What are ministers for if they ain’t to tell people how to get to heaven?”

“Oh, well, it’s all right for grown-ups to ask them things, of course.  But it isn’t respectful for little boys—­especially hired boys.”

“I don’t see why.  But anyhow, I s’pose it wouldn’t be much use, because if he was a Presbyterian minister he’d say I ought to be a Presbyterian, and if he was a Methodist he’d tell me to be one, too.  Look here, Felicity, what is the difference between them?”

“I—­I don’t know,” said Felicity reluctantly.  “I s’pose children can’t understand such things.  There must be a great deal of difference, of course, if we only knew what it was.  Anyhow, I am a Presbyterian, and I’m glad of it.”

We walked on in silence for a time, thinking our own young thoughts.  Presently they were scattered by an abrupt and startling question from Peter.

“What does God look like?” he said.

It appeared that none of us had any idea.

“The Story Girl would prob’ly know,” said Cecily.

“I wish I knew,” said Peter gravely.  “I wish I could see a picture of God.  It would make Him seem lots more real.”

“I’ve often wondered myself what he looks like,” said Felicity in a burst of confidence.  Even in Felicity, so it would seem, there were depths of thought unplumbed.

“I’ve seen pictures of Jesus,” said Felix meditatively.  “He looks just like a man, only better and kinder.  But now that I come to think of it, I’ve never seen a picture of God.”

“Well, if there isn’t one in Toronto it isn’t likely there’s one anywhere,” said Peter disappointedly.  “I saw a picture of the devil once,” he added.  “It was in a book my Aunt Jane had.  She got it for a prize in school.  My Aunt Jane was clever.”

“It couldn’t have been a very good book if there was such a picture in it,” said Felicity.

“It was a real good book.  My Aunt Jane wouldn’t have a book that wasn’t good,” retorted Peter sulkily.

He refused to discuss the subject further, somewhat to our disappointment.  For we had never seen a picture of the person referred to, and we were rather curious regarding it.

“We’ll ask Peter to describe it sometime when he’s in a better humour,” whispered Felix.

Sara Ray having turned in at her own gate, I ran ahead to join the Story Girl, and we walked up the hill together.  She had recovered her calmness of mind, but she made no reference to Peter.  When we reached our lane and passed under Grandfather King’s big willow the fragrance of the orchard struck us in the face like a wave.  We could see the long rows of trees, a white gladness in the moonshine.  It seemed to us that there was in the orchard something different from other orchards that we had known.  We were too young to analyze the vague sensation.  In later years we were to understand that it was because the orchard blossomed not only apple blossoms but all the love, faith, joy, pure happiness and pure sorrow of those who had made it and walked there.