`` He 's going to church with us to-morrow , '' she said triumphantly . We were out in Uncle Roger 's hill pasture , sitting on some smooth , round stones under a clump of birches . Behind us was an old gray fence , with violets and dandelions thick in its corners . Below us was the Carlisle valley , with its orchard-embowered homesteads , and fertile meadows . Its upper end was dim with a delicate spring mist . Winds blew up the field like wave upon wave of sweet savour -- spice of bracken and balsam . We were eating little jam `` turnovers , '' which Felicity had made for us . Felicity 's turnovers were perfection . I looked at her and wondered why it was not enough that she should be so pretty and capable of making such turnovers . If she were only more interesting ! Felicity had not a particle of the nameless charm and allurement which hung about every motion of the Story Girl , and made itself manifest in her lightest word and most careless glance . Ah well , one can not have every good gift ! The Story Girl had no dimples at her slim , brown wrists . We all enjoyed our turnovers except Sara Ray . She ate hers but she knew she should not have done so . Her mother did not approve of snacks between meals , or of jam turnovers at any time . Once , when Sara was in a brown study , I asked her what she was thinking of . `` I 'm trying to think of something ma has n't forbid , '' she answered with a sigh . We were all glad to hear that Peter was going to church , except Felicity . She was full of gloomy forebodings and warnings .
`` I 'm surprised XXXXX you , Felicity King , '' said Cecily severely .
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