“It is nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Marwood indignantly.  “There is no such thing as a picture of God, Felix.  No human being knows what he looks like—­no human being can know.  We should not even try to think what He looks like.  But, Felix, you may be sure that God is infinitely more beautiful and loving and tender and kind than anything we can imagine of Him.  Never believe anything else, my boy.  As for this—­this sacrilege—­take it and burn it.”

We did not know what a sacrilege meant, but we knew that Mr. Marwood had declared that the picture was not like God.  That was enough for us.  We felt as if a terrible weight had been lifted from our minds.

“I could hardly believe the Story Girl, but of course the minister knows,” said Dan happily.

“We’ve lost fifty cents because of it,” said Felicity gloomily.

We had lost something of infinitely more value than fifty cents, although we did not realize it just then.  The minister’s words had removed from our minds the bitter belief that God was like that picture; but on something deeper and more enduring than mind an impression had been made that was never to be removed.  The mischief was done.  From that day to this the thought or the mention of God brings up before us involuntarily the vision of a stern, angry, old man.  Such was the price we were to pay for the indulgence of a curiosity which each of us, deep in our hearts, had, like Sara Ray, felt ought not to be gratified.

“Mr. Marwood told me to burn it,” said Felix.

“It doesn’t seem reverent to do that,” said Cecily.  “Even if it isn’t God’s picture, it has His name on it.”

“Bury it,” said the Story Girl.

We did bury it after tea, in the depths of the spruce grove; and then we went into the orchard.  It was so nice to have the Story Girl back again.  She had wreathed her hair with Canterbury Bells, and looked like the incarnation of rhyme and story and dream.

“Canterbury Bells is a lovely name for a flower, isn’t it?” she said.  “It makes you think of cathedrals and chimes, doesn’t it?  Let’s go over to Uncle Stephen’s Walk, and sit on the branches of the big tree.  It’s too wet on the grass, and I know a story—­a true story, about an old lady I saw in town at Aunt Louisa’s.  Such a dear old lady, with lovely silvery curls.”

After the rain the air seemed dripping with odours in the warm west wind—­the tang of fir balsam, the spice of mint, the wild woodsiness of ferns, the aroma of grasses steeping in the sunshine,—­and with it all a breath of wild sweetness from far hill pastures.