As I remember, the spring came late that year in Carlisle. It was May before the weather began to satisfy the grown-ups. But we children were more easily pleased, and we thought April a splendid month because the snow all went early and left gray, firm, frozen ground for our and games. As the days slipped by they grew more gracious; the hillsides began to look as if they were thinking of mayflowers; the old was washed in a bath of sunshine and the sap stirred in the big trees; by day the sky was veiled with delicate cloud drift, fine and filmy as woven mist; in the evenings a full, low moon looked over the valleys, as and holy as some aureoled saint; a sound of laughter and dream was on the wind and the world grew young with the mirth of April breezes.  
“It’s so nice to be alive in the spring,” said the Story Girl one as we swung on the of Uncle Stephen’s walk.
 
“It’s nice to be alive any time,” said Felicity, .
 
“But it’s nicer in the spring,” insisted the Story Girl. “When I’m dead I think I’ll FEEL dead all the rest of the year, but when spring comes I’m sure I’ll feel like getting up and being alive again.”
 
“You do say such queer things,” complained Felicity. “You won’t be really dead any time. You’ll be in the next world. And I think it’s to talk about people being dead anyhow.”
 
“We’ve all got to die,” said Sara Ray solemnly, but with a certain . It was as if she enjoyed looking forward to something in which nothing, neither an unsympathetic mother, nor the cruel fate which had made her a colourless little , could prevent her from being the chief performer.
 
“I sometimes think,” said Cecily, rather wearily, “that it isn’t so dreadful to die young as I used to suppose.”
 
She prefaced her remark with a slight cough, as she had been all too apt to do of late, for the remnants of the cold she had caught the night we were lost in the storm still clung to her.
 
“Don’t talk such nonsense, Cecily,” cried the Story Girl with unwonted sharpness, a sharpness we all understood. All of us, in our hearts, though we never of it to each other, thought Cecily was not as well as she ought to be that spring, and we hated to hear anything said which seemed in any way to touch or acknowledge the tiny, faint shadow which now and again showed itself dimly athwart our sunshine.
 
“Well, it was you began talking of being dead,” said Felicity angrily. “I don’t think it’s right to talk of such things. Cecily, are you sure your feet ain’t damp? We ought to go in anyhow—it’s too out here for you.”
 
“You girls had better go,” said Dan, “but I ain’t going in till old Isaac Frewen goes. I’ve no use for him.”
 
“I hate him, too,” said Felicity, agreeing with Dan for once in her life. “He chews tobacco all the time and spits on the floor—the horrid pig!”
 
“And yet his brother is an elder in the church,” said Sara Ray wonderingly.
 
“I know a story about Isaac Frewen,” said the Story Girl. “When he was young he went by the name of Oatmeal Frewen and he got it this way. He was for doing outlandish things. He lived at Markdale then and he was a great, overgrown, awkward fellow, six feet tall. He drove over to Baywater one Saturday to visit his uncle there and came home the next afternoon, and although it was Sunday he brought a big bag of oatmeal in the with him. When he came to Carlisle church he saw that service was going on there, and he concluded to stop and go in. But he didn’t like to leave his oatmeal outside for fear something would happen to it, because there were always boys around, so he the bag on his back and walked into church with it and right to the top of the to Grandfather King’s pew. Grandfather King used to say he would never forget it to his dying day. The minister was preaching and everything was quiet and solemn when he heard a snicker behind him. Grandfather King turned around with a terrible frown—for you know in those days it was thought a dreadful thing to laugh in church—to the ; and what did he see but that great, hulking young Isaac stalking up the aisle, bending a little forward under the weight of a big bag of oatmeal? Grandfather King was so amazed he couldn’t laugh, but almost everyone else in the church was laughing, and grandfather said he never blamed them, for no funnier sight was ever seen. Young Isaac turned into grandfather’s pew and the bag of oatmeal down on the seat with a thud that cracked it. Then he plumped down beside it, took off his hat, wiped his face, and settled back to listen to the sermon, just as if it was all a matter of course. When the service was over he hoisted his bag up again, marched out of church, and drove home. He could never understand why it made so much talk; but he was known by the name of Oatmeal Frewen for years.”
 
Our laughter, as we separated, rang sweetly through the old orchard and across the far, dim meadows. Felicity and Cecily went into the house and Sara Ray and the Story Girl went home, but Peter decoyed me into the granary to ask advice.
 
“You know Felicity has a birthday next week,” he said, “and I want to write her an ode.”
 
“A—a what?” I .
 
“An ode,” repeated Peter, gravely. “It’s poetry, you know. I’ll put it in Our Magazine.”
 
“But you can’t write poetry, Peter,” I protested.
 
“I’m going to try,” said Peter . “That is, if you think she won’t be offended at me.”
 
“She ought to feel flattered,” I replied.
 
“You never can tell how she’ll take things,” said Peter gloomily. “Of course I ain’t going to sign my name, and if she ain’t pleased I won’t tell her I wrote it. Don’t you let on.”
 
I promised I wouldn’t and Peter went off with a light heart. He said he meant to write two lines every day till he got it done.
 
Cupid was playing his world-old tricks with others than poor Peter that spr............