Presbyterian church until you're old enough to have a horse."

"But s'posen I got too fond of being Presbyterian and couldn't
change if I wanted to?" objected Peter.

Altogether, the Story Girl had a hard time of it; but she
persevered; and one day she came to us with the announcement that
Peter had yielded.

"He's going to church with us to-morrow," she said triumphantly.

We were out in Uncle Roger's hill pasture, sitting on some
smooth, round stones under a clump of birches. Behind us was an
old gray fence, with violets and dandelions thick in its corners.
Below us was the Carlisle valley, with its orchard-embowered
homesteads, and fertile meadows. Its upper end was dim with a
delicate spring mist. Winds blew up the field like wave upon
wave of sweet savour--spice of bracken and balsam.

We were eating little jam "turnovers," which Felicity had made
for us. Felicity's turnovers were perfection. I looked at her
and wondered why it was not enough that she should be so pretty
and capable of making such turnovers. If she were only more
interesting! Felicity had not a particle of the nameless charm
and allurement which hung about every motion of the Story Girl,
and made itself manifest in her lightest word and most careless
glance. Ah well, one cannot have every good gift! The Story
Girl had no dimples at her slim, brown wrists.

We all enjoyed our turnovers except Sara Ray. She ate hers but