meant to laugh. It just happened before I could stop myself. It was this way—"
"Don't you ever speak to me again," said the Story Girl, in a tone of cold concentrated fury. "Go and be a Methodist, or a Mohammedan, or anything! I don't care what you are! You have humiliated me!"
She marched off with Sara Ray, and Peter dropped back to us with a frightened face.
"What is it I've done to her?" he whispered. "What does that big word mean?"
"Oh, never mind," I said crossly—for I felt that Peter had disgraced us—"She's just mad—and no wonder. Whatever made you act so crazy, Peter?"
"Well, I didn't mean to. And I wanted to laugh twice before that and didn't. It was the Story Girl's stories made me want to laugh, so I don't think it's fair for her to be mad at me. She hadn't ought to tell me stories about people if she don't want me to laugh when I see them. When I looked at Samuel Ward I thought of him getting up in meeting one night, and praying that he might be guided in his upsetting and downrising. I remembered the way she took him off, and I wanted to laugh. And then I looked at the pulpit and thought of the story she told about the old Scotch minister who was too fat to get in at the door of it, and had to h'ist himself by his two hands over it, and then whispered to the other minister so that everybody heard him.
" 'This pulpit door was made for speerits'—and I wanted to laugh. And then Mr. Frewen come—and
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