Cecily and Sara Ray found a “sweet” new knitted lace pattern in an old magazine and spent a happy afternoon learning it and “talking secrets.”  Chancing—­accidentally, I vow—­to overhear certain of these secrets, I learned that Sara Ray had named an apple for Johnny Price—­“and, Cecily, true’s you live, there was eight seeds in it, and you know eight means ‘they both love’ “—­while Cecily admitted that Willy Fraser had written on his slate and showed it to her,

    “If you love me as I love you,
    No knife can cut our love in two”—­

“but, Sara Ray, never you breathe this to a living soul.”

Felix also averred that he heard Sara ask Cecily very seriously,

“Cecily, how old must we be before we can have a real beau?”

But Sara always denied it; so I am inclined to believe Felix simply made it up himself.

Paddy distinguished himself by catching a rat, and being intolerably conceited about it—­until Sara Ray cured him by calling him a “dear, sweet cat,” and kissing him between the ears.  Then Pat sneaked abjectly off, his tail drooping.  He resented being called a sweet cat.  He had a sense of humour, had Pat.  Very few cats have; and most of them have such an inordinate appetite for flattery that they will swallow any amount of it and thrive thereon.  Paddy had a finer taste.  The Story Girl and I were the only ones who could pay him compliments to his liking.  The Story Girl would box his ears with her fist and say, “Bless your gray heart, Paddy, you’re a good sort of old rascal,” and Pat would purr his satisfaction; I used to take a handful of the skin on his back, shake him gently and say, “Pat, you’ve forgotten more than any human being ever knew,” and I vow Paddy would lick his chops with delight.  But to be called “a sweet cat!” Oh, Sara, Sara!

Felicity tried—­and had the most gratifying luck with—­a new and complicated cake recipe—­a gorgeous compound of a plumminess to make your mouth water.  The number of eggs she used in it would have shocked Aunt Janet’s thrifty soul, but that cake, like beauty, was its own excuse.  Uncle Roger ate three slices of it at tea-time and told Felicity she was an artist.  The poor man meant it as a compliment; but Felicity, who knew Uncle Blair was an artist and had a poor opinion of such fry, looked indignant and retorted, indeed she wasn’t!

“Peter says there’s any amount of raspberries back in the maple clearing,” said Dan.  “S’posen we all go after tea and pick some?”

“I’d like to,” sighed Felicity, “but we’d come home tired and with all the milking to do.  You boys better go alone.”

“Peter and I will attend to the milking for one evening,” said Uncle Roger.  “You can all go.  I have an idea that a raspberry pie for to-morrow night, when the folks come home, would hit the right spot.”