"Perhaps they'll laugh on the other side of their faces to-morrow," said Dan, with gloomy satisfaction.
We were sitting on the cellar hatch, watching what might be our last sunset o'er the dark hills of time. Peter was with us. It was his Sunday to go home, but he had elected to remain.
"If to-morrow is the Judgment Day I want to be with you fellows," he said.
Sara Ray had also yearned to stay, but could not, because her mother had told her she must be home before dark.
"Never mind, Sara," comforted Cecily. "It's not to be till two o'clock to-morrow, so you'll have plenty of time to get up here before anything happens."
"But there might be a mistake," sobbed Sara. "It might be at two o'clock to-night instead of to-morrow."
It might, indeed. This was a new horror, which had not occurred to us.
"I'm sure I won't sleep a wink to-night," said Felix.
"The paper says two o'clock to-morrow," said Dan. "You needn't worry, Sara."
But Sara departed, weeping. She did not, however, forget to carry the forget-me-not jug with her. All things considered, her departure was a relief. Such a constantly tearful damsel was not a pleasant companion. Cecily and Felicity and the Story Girl did not cry. They were made of finer, firmer stuff. Dry-
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