"We've lost fifty cents because of it," said Felicity gloomily.

We had lost something of infinitely more value than fifty cents,
although we did not realize it just then. The minister's words
had removed from our minds the bitter belief that God was like
that picture; but on something deeper and more enduring than mind
an impression had been made that was never to be removed. The
mischief was done. From that day to this the thought or the
mention of God brings up before us involuntarily the vision of a
stern, angry, old man. Such was the price we were to pay for the
indulgence of a curiosity which each of us, deep in our hearts,
had, like Sara Ray, felt ought not to be gratified.

"Mr. Marwood told me to burn it," said Felix.

"It doesn't seem reverent to do that," said Cecily. "Even if it
isn't God's picture, it has His name on it."

"Bury it," said the Story Girl.

We did bury it after tea, in the depths of the spruce grove; and
then we went into the orchard. It was so nice to have the Story
Girl back again. She had wreathed her hair with Canterbury
Bells, and looked like the incarnation of rhyme and story and
dream.

"Canterbury Bells is a lovely name for a flower, isn't it?" she
said. "It makes you think of cathedrals and chimes, doesn't it?
Let's go over to Uncle Stephen's Walk, and sit on the branches of
the big tree. It's too wet on the grass, and I know a story--a