years," she said.

"He can hardly write," said Felicity.

"William the Conqueror couldn't write at all," said the Story
Girl crushingly.

"He never goes to church, and he never says his prayers,"
retorted Felicity, uncrushed.

"I do, too," said Peter himself, suddenly appearing through a
little gap in the hedge. "I say my prayers sometimes."

This Peter was a slim, shapely fellow, with laughing black eyes
and thick black curls. Early in the season as it was, he was
barefooted. His attire consisted of a faded, gingham shirt and a
scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers; but he wore it with such
an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be
much better dressed than he really was.

"You don't pray very often," insisted Felicity.

"Well, God will be all the more likely to listen to me if I don't
pester Him all the time," argued Peter.

This was rank heresy to Felicity, but the Story Girl looked as if
she thought there might be something in it.

"You NEVER go to church, anyhow," continued Felicity, determined
not to be argued down.