“Nonsense,” said Faith.  “The people that are buried here weren’t any better than other folks, Una.  But when anyone is dead you mustn’t say anything of him but good or he’ll come back and ha’nt you.  Aunt Martha told me that.  I asked father if it was true and he just looked through me and muttered, ’True?  True?  What is truth?  What is truth, O jesting Pilate?’ I concluded from that it must be true.”

“I wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha’nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his tombstone,” said Jerry.

“Mrs. Davis would,” giggled Faith.  “She just watches us in church like a cat watching mice.  Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seen her glare.  I’ll bet she boxed his ears when they got out.  Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn’t offend her on any account or I’d have made a face at her, too!”

“They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would never have his father again, even when her husband was dying,” said Jerry.  “I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like.”

“I liked their looks,” said Faith.  The manse children had been at the station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived.  “I liked Jem’s looks especially.”

“They say in school that Walter’s a sissy,” said Jerry.

“I don’t believe it,” said Una, who had thought Walter very handsome.

“Well, he writes poetry, anyhow.  He won the prize the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me.  Bertie’s mother thought he should have got the prize because of his name, but Bertie said he couldn’t write poetry to save his soul, name or no name.”

“I suppose we’ll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to school,” mused Faith.  “I hope the girls are nice.  I don’t like most of the girls round here.  Even the nice ones are poky.  But the Blythe twins look jolly.  I thought twins always looked alike, but they don’t.  I think the red-haired one is the nicest.”

“I liked their mother’s looks,” said Una with a little sigh.  Una envied all children their mothers.  She had been only six when her mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh.

“They say she isn’t like other people,” said Jerry.

“Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up,” said Faith.

“She’s taller than Mrs. Elliott.”

“Yes, yes, but it is inside—­Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe just stayed a little girl inside.”

“What do I smell?” interrupted Carl, sniffing.

They all smelled it now.  A most delectable odour came floating up on the still evening air from the direction of the little woodsy dell below the manse hill.