“Were they ever like this before?” I asked Cecily, as we talked the matter over privately in Uncle Stephen’s Walk.

“Never for so long,” said Cecily.  “They had a spell like this last summer, and one the summer before, but they only lasted a couple of days.”

“And who spoke first?”

“Oh, the Story Girl.  She got excited about something and spoke to Felicity before she thought, and then it was all right.  But I’m afraid it isn’t going to be like that this time.  Don’t you notice how careful the Story Girl is not to get excited?  That is such a bad sign.”

“We’ve just got to think up something that will excite her, that’s all,” I said.

“I’m—­I’m praying about it,” said Cecily in a low voice, her tear-wet lashes trembling against her pale, round cheeks.  “Do you suppose it will do any good, Bev?”

“Very likely,” I assured her.  “Remember Sara Ray and the money.  That came from praying.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Cecily tremulously.  “Dan said it was no use for me to bother praying about it.  He said if they couldn’t speak God might do something, but when they just wouldn’t it wasn’t likely He would interfere.  Dan does say such queer things.  I’m so afraid he’s going to grow up just like Uncle Robert Ward, who never goes to church, and doesn’t believe more than half the Bible is true.”

“Which half does he believe is true?” I inquired with unholy curiosity.

“Oh, just the nice parts.  He says there’s a heaven all right, but no—­no—­hell.  I don’t want Dan to grow up like that.  It isn’t respectable.  And you wouldn’t want all kinds of people crowding heaven, now, would you?”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” I agreed, thinking of Billy Robinson.

“Of course, I can’t help feeling sorry for those who have to go to the other place,” said Cecily compassionately.  “But I suppose they wouldn’t be very comfortable in heaven either.  They wouldn’t feel at home.  Andrew Marr said a simply dreadful thing about the other place one night last fall, when Felicity and I were down to see Kitty, and they were burning the potato stalks.  He said he believed the other place must be lots more interesting than heaven because fires were such jolly things.  Now, did you ever hear the like?”

“I guess it depends a good deal on whether you’re inside or outside the fires,” I said.

“Oh, Andrew didn’t really mean it, of course.  He just said it to sound smart and make us stare.  The Marrs are all like that.  But anyhow, I’m going to keep on praying that something will happen to excite the Story Girl.  I don’t believe there is any use in praying that Felicity will speak first, because I am sure she won’t.”

“But don’t you suppose God could make her?” I said, feeling that it wasn’t quite fair that the Story Girl should always have to speak first.  If she had spoken first the other times it was surely Felicity’s turn this time.