were of no avail? The old, old argument I suppose--'beauty draws
us with a single hair.'"

Uncle Roger looked quizzically at Felicity. We did not know what
his quotations meant, but we understood he thought Peter was
going to church because of Felicity. Felicity tossed her head.

"It isn't my fault that he's going to church," she said
snappishly. "It's the Story Girl's doings."

Uncle Roger sat down on the doorstep, and gave himself over to
one of the silent, inward paroxysms of laughter we all found so
very aggravating. He shook his big, blond head, shut his eyes,
and murmured,

"Not her fault! Oh, Felicity, Felicity, you'll be the death of
your dear Uncle yet if you don't watch out."

Felicity started off indignantly, and we followed, picking up
Sara Ray at the foot of the hill.

The Carlisle church was a very old-fashioned one, with a square,
ivy-hung tower. It was shaded by tall elms, and the graveyard
surrounded it completely, many of the graves being directly under
its windows. We always took the corner path through it, passing
the King plot where our kindred of four generations slept in a
green solitude of wavering light and shadow.

There was Great-grandfather King's flat tombstone of rough Island
sandstone, so overgrown with ivy that we could hardly read its