Elder Frewen, a tall, pale man, with long, sandy side-whiskers,
appeared at the door of our pew with the collection plate. We
knew Elder Frewen quite well and like him; he was Aunt Janet's
cousin and often visited her. The contrast between his week-day
jollity and the unearthly solemnity of his countenance on Sundays
always struck us as very funny. It seemed so to strike Peter;
for as Peter dropped his cent into the plate he laughed aloud!

Everybody looked at our pew. I have always wondered why Felicity
did not die of mortification on the spot. The Story Girl turned
white, and Cecily turned red. As for that poor, unlucky Peter,
the shame of his countenance was pitiful to behold. He never
lifted his head for the remainder of the service; and he followed
us down the aisle and across the graveyard like a beaten dog.
None of us uttered a word until we reached the road, lying in the
white moonshine of the May night. Then Felicity broke the tense
silence by remarking to the Story Girl,

"I told you so!"

The Story Girl made no response. Peter sidled up to her.

"I'm awful sorry," he said contritely. "I never meant to laugh.
It just happened before I could stop myself. It was this way--"

"Don't you ever speak to me again," said the Story Girl, in a
tone of cold concentrated fury. "Go and be a Methodist, or a
Mohammedan, or ANYTHING! I don't care what you are! You have
HUMILIATED me!"