Poor Mr. Davidson resumed his discourse. Old Elder Bayley, whose
attention an earthquake could not have distracted from the sermon,
afterwards declared that it was an excellent and edifying
exhortation, but I doubt if anyone else in Carlisle church tasted
it much or gained much good therefrom. Certainly we of the King
household did not. We could not even remember the text when we
reached home. Felicity was comfortless.
"Mr. Davidson would be sure to think she belonged to our family
when she was in our pew," she said bitterly. "Oh, I feel as if I
could never get over such a mortification! Peter, I do wish you
wouldn't go telling people they ought to go to church. It's all
your fault that this happened."
"Never mind, it will be a good story to tell sometime," remarked
the Story Girl with relish.
CHAPTER XXII
THE YANKEE STORM
In an August orchard six children and a grown-up were sitting
around the pulpit stone. The grown-up was Miss Reade, who had
been up to give the girls their music lesson and had consented to
stay to tea, much to the rapture of the said girls, who continued
to worship her with unabated and romantic ardour. To us, over the
golden grasses, came the Story Girl, carrying in her hand a single
large poppy, like a blood-red chalice filled with the wine of
August wizardry.
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