Even Cecily, the meek and mild, was snappish, and complained of headache.  Peter had gone home to see his mother, and Uncle Roger had gone to Markdale on business.  Sara Ray came up, but was so snubbed by Felicity that she went home, crying.  Felicity got the dinner by herself, disdaining to ask or command assistance.  She banged things about and rattled the stove covers until even Cecily protested from her sofa.  Dan sat on the floor and whittled, his sole aim and object being to make a mess and annoy Felicity, in which noble ambition he succeeded perfectly.

“I wish Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec were home,” said Felix.  “It’s not half so much fun having the grown-ups away as I thought it would be.”

“I wish I was back in Toronto,” I said sulkily.  The mince pie was to blame for that wish.

“I wish you were, I’m sure,” said Felicity, riddling the fire noisily.

“Any one who lives with you, Felicity King, will always be wishing he was somewhere else,” said Dan.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Dan King,” retorted Felicity, “’Speak when you’re spoken to, come when you’re called.’”

“Oh, oh, oh,” wailed Cecily on the sofa.  “I wish it would stop raining.  I wish my head would stop aching.  I wish ma had never gone away.  I wish you’d leave Felicity alone, Dan.”

“I wish girls had some sense,” said Dan—­which brought the orgy of wishing to an end for the time.  A wishing fairy might have had the time of her life in the King kitchen that morning—­particularly if she were a cynically inclined fairy.

But even the effects of unholy snacks wear away at length.  By tea-time things had brightened up.  The rain had ceased, and the old, low-raftered room was full of sunshine which danced on the shining dishes of the dresser, made mosaics on the floor, and flickered over the table whereon a delicious meal was spread.  Felicity had put on her blue muslin, and looked so beautiful in it that her good humour was quite restored.  Cecily’s headache was better, and the Story Girl, refreshed by an afternoon siesta, came down with smiles and sparkling eyes.  Dan alone continued to nurse his grievances, and would not even laugh when the Story Girl told us a tale brought to mind by some of the “Rev. Mr. Scott’s plums” which were on the table.

“The Rev. Mr. Scott was the man who thought the pulpit door must be made for speerits, you know,” she said.  “I heard Uncle Edward telling ever so many stories about him.  He was called to this congregation, and he laboured here long and faithfully, and was much beloved, though he was very eccentric.”

“What does that mean?” asked Peter.

“Hush!  It just means queer,” said Cecily, nudging him with her elbow.  “A common man would be queer, but when it’s a minister, it’s eccentric.”