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 determined⁴ 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 gaily⁵ along over the fields from the Armstrong place.

 

Presently Peter came jauntily⁶ 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 killing⁷ sarcasm⁸ 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

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