“I don’t know that.  I’m thinking of going barefooted.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t!  Sara Stanley, you’re not in earnest!” exclaimed Felicity, her blue eyes filling with horror.

The Story Girl winked with the side of her face next to Felix and me, but the side next the girls changed not a muscle.  She dearly loved to “take a rise” out of Felicity now and then.

“Indeed, I would if I just made up my mind to.  Why not?  Why not bare feet—­if they’re clean—­as well as bare hands and face?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t!  It would be such a disgrace!” said poor Felicity in real distress.

“We went to school barefooted all June,” argued that wicked Story Girl.  “What is the difference between going to the schoolhouse barefooted in the daytime and going in the evening?”

“Oh, there’s every difference.  I can’t just explain it—­but every one knows there is a difference.  You know it yourself.  Oh, please, don’t do such a thing, Sara.”

“Well, I won’t, just to oblige you,” said the Story Girl, who would have died the death before she would have gone to a “public meeting” barefooted.

We were all rather excited over the magic lantern show which an itinerant lecturer was to give in the schoolhouse that evening.  Even Felix and I, who had seen such shows galore, were interested, and the rest were quite wild.  There had never been such a thing in Carlisle before.  We were all going, Peter included.  Peter went everywhere with us now.  He was a regular attendant at church and Sunday School, where his behaviour was as irreproachable as if he had been “raised” in the caste of Vere de Vere.  It was feather in the Story Girl’s cap, for she took all the credit of having started Peter on the right road.  Felicity was resigned, although the fatal patch on Peter’s best trousers was still an eyesore to her.  She declared she never got any good of the singing, because Peter stood up then and every one could see the patch.  Mrs. James Clark, whose pew was behind ours, never took her eye off it—­or so Felicity averred.

But Peter’s stockings were always darned.  Aunt Olivia had seen to that, ever since she heard of Peter’s singular device regarding them on his first Sunday.  She had also given Peter a Bible, of which he was so proud that he hated to use it lest he should soil it.

“I think I’ll wrap it up and keep it in my box,” he said.  “I’ve an old Bible of Aunt Jane’s at home that I can use.  I s’pose it’s just the same, even if it is old, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” Cecily had assured him.  “The Bible is always the same.”

“I thought maybe they’d got some new improvements on it since Aunt Jane’s day,” said Peter, relieved.

“Sara Ray is coming along the lane, and she’s crying,” announced Dan, who was peering out of a knot-hole on the opposite side of the loft.

“Sara Ray is crying half her time,” said Cecily impatiently.  “I’m sure she cries a quartful of tears a month.  There are times when you can’t help crying.  But I hide then.  Sara just goes and cries in public.”