This Peter was a slim, shapely fellow, with laughing black eyes and thick black curls. Early in the season as it was, he was barefooted. His attire consisted of a faded, gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers; but he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed than he really was.
"You don't pray very often," insisted Felicity.
"Well, God will be all the more likely to listen to me if I don't pester Him all the time," argued Peter.
This was rank heresy to Felicity, but the Story Girl looked as if she thought there might be something in it.
"You never go to church, anyhow," continued Felicity, determined not to be argued down.
"Well, I ain't going to church till I've made up my mind whether I'm going to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian. Aunt Jane was a Methodist. My mother ain't much of anything but I mean to be something. It's more respectable to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian, or something, than not to be anything. When I've settled what I'm to be I'm going to church same as you."
"That's not the same as being born something," said Felicity loftily.
"I think it's a good deal better to pick your own religion than have to take it just because it was what your folks had," retorted Peter.
"Now, never mind quarrelling," said Cecily. "You
32
