Presently Peter came jauntily 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 killing sarcasm 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
Judgment Day, that I'd be a Presbyterian, and I've got to stick to
it. I'm sorry I can't be a Methodist, like you and mother and
Aunt Jane, but I can't and that's all there is to it,' I says.
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