Felicity, and Cecily, Dan, Felix, Sara Ray and I were sitting one evening on the mossy stones in Uncle Roger’s hill pasture, where we had sat the morning the Story Girl told us the tale of the Wedding Veil of the Proud Princess. But it was evening now and the valley beneath us was brimmed up with the glow of the afterlight. Behind us, two tall, shapely spruce trees rose up against the sunset, and through the dark oriel of their branches an evening star looked down. We sat on a little strip of emerald and before us was a sloping meadow all white with daisies.  
We were waiting for Peter and the Story Girl. Peter had gone to Markdale after dinner to spend the afternoon with his reunited parents because it was his birthday. He had left us grimly to confess to his father the dark secret of his Presbyterianism, and we were anxious to know what the result had been. The Story Girl had gone that morning with Miss Reade to visit the latter’s home near Charlottetown, and we expected soon to see her coming along over the fields from the Armstrong place.
 
Presently Peter came stepping along the field path up the hill.
 
“Hasn’t Peter got tall?” said Cecily.
 
“Peter is growing to be a very fine looking boy,” decreed Felicity.
 
“I notice he’s got ever so much handsomer since his father came home,” said Dan, with a that was wholly lost on Felicity, who gravely responded that she supposed it was because Peter felt so much freer from care and responsibility.
 
“What luck, Peter?” yelled Dan, as soon as Peter was within earshot.
 
“Everything’s all right,” he shouted jubilantly. “I told father right off, licketty-split, as soon as I got home,” he added when he reached us. “I was anxious to have it over with. I says, solemn-like, ‘Dad, there’s something I’ve got to tell you, and I don’t know how you’ll take it, but it can’t be helped,’ I says. Dad looked pretty sober, and he says, says he, ‘What have you been up to, Peter? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I’ve been forgiven to seventy times seven, so surely I can forgive a little, too?’ ‘Well,’ I says, desperate-like, ‘the truth is, father, I’m a Presbyterian. I made up my mind last summer, the time of the Day, that I’d be a Presbyterian, and I’ve got to stick to it. I’m sorry I can’t be a Methodist, like you and mother and Aunt Jane, but I can’t and that’s all there is to it,’ I says. Then I waited, scared-like. But father, he just looked relieved and he says, says he, ‘Goodness, boy, you can be a Presbyterian or anything else you like, so long as it’s Protestant. I’m not caring,’ he says. ‘The main thing is that you must be good and do what’s right.’ I tell you,” concluded Peter emphatically, “father is a all right.”
 
“Well, I suppose your mind will be at rest now,” said Felicity. “What’s that you have in your buttonhole?”
 
“That’s a four-leaved clover,” answered Peter . “That means good luck for the summer. I found it in Markdale. There ain’t much clover in Carlisle this year of any kind of leaf. The crop is going to be a failure. Your Uncle Roger says it’s because there ain’t enough old maids in Carlisle. There’s lots of them in Markdale, and that’s the reason, he says, why they always have such good clover crops there.”
 
“What on earth have old maids to do with it?” cried Cecily.
 
“I don’t believe they’ve a single thing to do with it, but Mr. Roger says they have, and he says a man called Darwin proved it. This is the rigmarole he got off to me the other day. The clover crop depends on there being plenty of bumble-bees, because they are the only insects with tongues long enough to—to—fer—fertilize—I think he called it the blossoms. But mice eat bumble-bees and cats eat mice and old maids keep cats. So your Uncle Roger says the more old maids the more cats, and the more cats the fewer field-mice, and the fewer field-mice the more bumble-bees, and the more bumble-bees the better clover crops.”
 
“So don’t worry if you do get to be old maids, girls,” said Dan. “Remember, you’ll be the clover crops.”
 
“I never heard such stuff as you boys talk,” said Felicity, “and Uncle Roger is no better.”
 
“There comes the Story Girl,” cried Cecily eagerly. “Now we’ll hear all about Beautiful Alice’s home.”
 
The Story Girl was bombarded with eager questions as soon as she arrived. Miss Reade’s home was a dream of a place, it appeared. The house was just covered with and there was a most old garden—“and,” added the Story Girl, with the joy of a who has found a rare , “the sweetest little story connected with it. And I saw the hero of the story too.”
 
“Where was the heroine?” Cecily.
 
“She is de............