ground for our rambles and games. As the days slipped by they
grew more gracious; the hillsides began to look as if they were

thinking of mayflowers; the old orchard was washed in a bath of
tingling sunshine and the sap stirred in the big trees; by day the

sky was veiled with delicate cloud drift, fine and filmy as woven
mist; in the evenings a full, low moon looked over the valleys, as

pallid and holy as some aureoled saint; a sound of laughter and
dream was on the wind and the world grew young with the mirth of

April breezes.
"It's so nice to be alive in the spring," said the Story Girl one

twilight as we swung on the boughs of Uncle Stephen's walk.
"It's nice to be alive any time," said Felicity, complacently.

"But it's nicer in the spring," insisted the Story Girl. "When
I'm dead I think I'll FEEL dead all the rest of the year, but when

spring comes I'm sure I'll feel like getting up and being alive
again."

"You do say such queer things," complained Felicity. "You won't
be really dead any time. You'll be in the next world. And I

think it's horrid to talk about people being dead anyhow."
"We've all got to die," said Sara Ray solemnly" target="_blank" title="ad.严肃地，庄严地">solemnly, but with a certain

relish. It was as if she enjoyed looking forward to something in
which nothing, neither an unsympathetic mother, nor the cruel fate

which had made her a colourless little nonentity, could prevent
her from being the chief performer.

"I sometimes think," said Cecily, rather wearily, "that it isn't
so dreadful to die young as I used to suppose."

She prefaced her remark with a slight cough, as she had been all
too apt to do of late, for the remnants of the cold she had caught

the night we were lost in the storm still clung to her.
"Don't talk such nonsense, Cecily," cried the Story Girl with

unwonted sharpness, a sharpness we all understood. All of us, in
our hearts, though we never spoke of it to each other, thought

Cecily was not as well as she ought to be that spring, and we
hated to hear anything said which seemed in any way to touch or

acknowledge the tiny, faint shadow which now and again showed
itself dimly athwart our sunshine.

"Well, it was you began talking of being dead," said Felicity
angrily. "I don't think it's right to talk of such things.

Cecily, are you sure your feet ain't damp? We ought to go in
anyhow--it's too chilly out here for you."

"You girls had better go," said Dan, "but I ain't going in till
old Isaac Frewen goes. I've no use for him."

"I hate him, too," said Felicity, agreeing with Dan for once in
her life. "He chews tobacco all the time and spits on the floor--

the horrid pig!"
"And yet his brother is an elder in the church," said Sara Ray

wonderingly.
"I know a story about Isaac Frewen," said the Story Girl. "When

he was young he went by the name of Oatmeal Frewen and he got it
this way. He was noted for doing outlandish things. He lived at

Markdale then and he was a great, overgrown, awkward fellow, six
feet tall. He drove over to Baywater one Saturday to visit his

uncle there and came home the next afternoon, and although it was
Sunday he brought a big bag of oatmeal in the wagon with him.

When he came to Carlisle church he saw that service was going on
there, and he concluded to stop and go in. But he didn't like to

leave his oatmeal outside for fear something would happen to it,
because there were always mischievous boys around, so he hoisted

the bag on his back and walked into church with it and right to
the top of the aisle to Grandfather King's pew. Grandfather King

used to say he would never forget it to his dying day. The
minister was preaching and everything was quiet and solemn when he

heard a snicker behind him. Grandfather King turned around with a
terrible frown--for you know in those days it was thought a

dreadful thing to laugh in church--to rebuke the offender; and
what did he see but that great, hulking young Isaac stalking up

the aisle, bending a little forward under the weight of a big bag
of oatmeal? Grandfather King was so amazed he couldn't laugh, but

almost everyone else in the church was laughing, and grandfather
said he never blamed them, for no funnier sight was ever seen.

Young Isaac turned into grandfather's pew and thumped the bag of
oatmeal down on the seat with a thud that cracked it. Then he

plumped down beside it, took off his hat, wiped his face, and
settled back to listen to the sermon, just as if it was all a

matter of course. When the service was over he hoisted his bag up
again, marched out of church, and drove home. He could never

understand why it made so much talk; but he was known by the name
of Oatmeal Frewen for years."

Our laughter, as we separated, rang sweetly through the old
orchard and across the far, dim meadows. Felicity and Cecily went

into the house and Sara Ray and the Story Girl went home, but
Peter decoyed me into the granary to ask advice.

"You know Felicity has a birthday next week," he said, "and I want
to write her an ode."

"A--a what?" I gasped.
"An ode," repeated Peter, gravely. "It's poetry, you know. I'll

put it in Our Magazine."
"But you can't write poetry, Peter," I protested.

"I'm going to try," said Peter stoutly. "That is, if you think
she won't be offended at me."

"She ought to feel flattered," I replied.
"You never can tell how she'll take things," said Peter gloomily.

"Of course I ain't going to sign my name, and if she ain't pleased
I won't tell her I wrote it. Don't you let on."

I promised I wouldn't and Peter went off with a light heart. He
said he meant to write two lines every day till he got it done.

Cupid was playing his world-old tricks with others than poor Peter
that spring. Allusion has been made in these chronicles to one,

Cyrus Brisk, and to the fact that our brown-haired, soft-voiced
Cecily had found favour in the eyes of the said Cyrus. Cecily did

not regard her conquest with any pride. On the contrary, it
annoyed her terribly to be teased about Cyrus. She declared she

hated both him and his name. She was as uncivil to him as sweet
Cecily could be to anyone, but the gallant Cyrus was nothing

daunted. He laid determined siege to Cecily's young heart by all
the methods known to love-lorn swains. He placed delicate

tributes of spruce gum, molasses taffy, "conversation" candies and
decorated slate pencils on her desk; he persistently "chose" her

in all school games calling for a partner; he entreated to be
allowed to carry her basket from school; he offered to work her

sums for her; and rumour had it that he had made a wild statement
to the effect that he meant to ask if he might see her home some

night from prayer meeting. Cecily was quite frightened that he
would; she confided to me that she would rather die than walk home

with him, but that if he asked her she would be too bashful to say
no. So far, however, Cyrus had not molested her out of school,

nor had he as yet thumped Willy Fraser--who was reported to be
very low in his spirits over the whole affair.

And now Cyrus had written Cecily a letter--a love letter, mark
you. Moreover, he had sent it through the post-office, with a

real stamp on it. Its arrival made a sensation among us. Dan
brought it from the office and, recognizing the writing" target="_blank" title="n.笔迹；书法">handwriting of

Cyrus, gave Cecily no peace until she showed us the letter. It
was a very sentimental and rather ill-spelled epistle in which the

inflammable Cyrus reproached her in heart-rending words for her
coldness, and begged her to answer his letter, saying that if she