Dan was his own man again in the morning, though rather pale and weak; he wanted to get up, but Cecily ordered him to stay in bed. Fortunately Felicity forgot to repeat the command, so Dan did stay in bed. Cecily carried his meals to him, and read a Henty book to him all her spare time. The Story Girl went up and told him tales; and Sara Ray brought him a pudding she had made herself. Sara's intentions were good, but the pudding— well, Dan fed most of it to Paddy, who had curled himself up at the foot of the bed, giving the world assurance of a cat by his purring.  
"Ain't he just a great old fellow?" said Dan. "He knows I'm kind of sick, just as well as a human. He never pays no attention to me when I'm well."
 
Felix and Peter and I were required to help Uncle Roger in some carpentering work that day, and Felicity indulged in one of the house-cleaning orgies so dear to her soul; so that it was evening before we were all free to meet in the and loll on the grasses of Uncle Stephen's Walk. In August it was a place of shady sweetness, with the odour of apples, full of dear, delicate shadows. Through its openings we looked afar to the blue of the hills and over green, old, fields, lying the sunset glow. Overhead the lacing leaves made a green, roof. There was no such thing as hurry in the world, while we lingered there and talked of "cabbages and kings." A tale of the Story Girl's, wherein princes were thicker than blackberries, and queens as common as buttercups, led to our discussion of kings. We wondered what it would be like to be a king. Peter thought it would be fine, only kind of , wearing a crown all the time.
 
"Oh, but they don't," said the Story Girl. "Maybe they used to once, but now they wear hats. The crowns are just for special occasions. They look very much like other people, if you can go by their photographs."
 
"I don't believe it would be much fun as a steady thing," said Cecily. "I'd like to SEE a queen though. That is one thing I have against the Island—you never have a chance to see things like that here."
 
"The Prince of Wales was in Charlottetown once," said Peter. "My
Aunt Jane saw him quite close by."
"That was before we were born, and such a thing won't happen again until after we're dead," said Cecily, with very unusual .
 
"I think queens and kings were thicker long ago," said the Story Girl. "They do seem dreadfully scarce now. There isn't one in this country anywhere. Perhaps I'll get a glimpse of some when I go to Europe."
 
Well, the Story Girl was to stand before kings herself, and she was to be one whom they delighted to honour. But we did not know that, as we sat in the old orchard. We thought it quite marvellous that she should expect to have the chance of just seeing them.
 
"Can a queen do exactly as she pleases?" Sara Ray wanted to know.
 
"Not nowadays," explained the Story Girl.
 
"Then I don't see any use in being one," Sara .
 
"A king can't do as he pleases now, either," said Felix. "If he tries to, and if it isn't what pleases other people, the Parliament or something him."
 
"Isn't '' a lovely word?" said the Story Girl . "It's so . Squ-u-e-l-ch!"
 
Certainly it was a lovely word, as the Story Girl said it. Even a king would not have minded being , if it were done to music like that.
 
"Uncle Roger says that Martin Forbes' wife has squelched HIM," said Felicity. "He says Martin can't call his soul his own since he was married."
 
"I'm glad of it," said Cecily .
 
We all stared. This was so very unlike Cecily.
 
"Martin Forbes is the brother of a man in Summerside who called me Johnny, that's why," she explained. "He was visiting here with his wife two years ago, and he called me Johnny every time he to me. Just you fancy! I'll NEVER forgive him."
 
"That isn't a spirit," said Felicity .
 
"I don't care. Would YOU forgive James Forbes if he had called
YOU Johnny?" demanded Cecily.
"I know a story about Martin Forbes' grandfather," said the Story Girl. "Long ago they didn't have any in the Carlisle church—just a precentor you know. But at last they got a choir, and Andrew McPherson was to sing in it. Old Mr. Forbes hadn't gone to church for years, because he was so rheumatic, but he went the first Sunday the choir sang, because he had never heard any one sing bass, and wanted to hear what it was like. Grandfather King asked him what he thought of the choir. Mr. Forbes said it was 'verra guid,' but as for Andrew's bass, 'there was nae bass aboot it—it was just a bur-r-r-r the hale time.'"
 
If you could have heard the Story Girl's "bur-r-r-r!" Not old Mr.
Forbes himself could have invested it with more of Doric scorn.
We rolled over in the cool grass and screamed with laughter.
"Poor Dan," said Cecily . "He's up there all alone in his room, missing all the fun. I suppose it's mean of us to be having such a good time here, when he has to stay in bed."
 
"If Dan hadn't done wrong eating the bad berries when he was told not to, he wouldn't be sick," said Felicity. "You're bound to catch it when you do wrong. It was just a he didn't die."
 
"That makes me think of another story about old Mr. Scott," said the Story Girl. "You know, I told you he was very angry because the Presbytery made him retire. There were two ministers in particular he blamed for being at the bottom of it. One time a friend of his was trying to console him, and said to him,
 
"'You should be resigned to the will of Providence.'
 
"'Providence had nothing to do with it,' said old Mr. Scott.
''Twas the McCloskeys and the devil.'"
"You shouldn't speak of the—the—DEVIL," said Felicity, rather shocked.
 
"Well, that's just what Mr. Scott said."
 
"Oh, it's all right for a MINISTER to speak of him. But it isn't nice for little girls. If you HAVE to speak of—of—him—you might say the Old Scratch. That is what mother calls him."
 
"''Twas the McCloskeys and the Old Scratch,'" said the Story Girl reflectively, as if she were trying to see which version was the more effective. "It wouldn't do," she decided.
 
"I don't think it's any harm to mention the—the—that person, when you're telling a story," said Cecily. "It's only in plain talking it doesn't do. It sounds too much like swearing then."
 
"I know another story about Mr. Scott," said the Story Girl. "Not long after he was married his wife wasn't quite ready for church one morning when it was time to go. So, just to teach her a lesson, he drove off alone, and left her to walk all the way—it was nearly two miles—in the heat and dust. She took it very quietly. It's the best way, I guess, when you're married to ............