`` Peter is splendid . His mother lives on the Markdale road and washes for a living . Peter 's father ran away and left them when Peter was only three years old . He has never come back , and they do n't know whether he is alive or dead . Is n't that a nice way to behave to your family ? Peter has worked for his board ever since he was six . Uncle Roger sends him to school , and pays him wages in summer . We all like Peter , except Felicity . '' `` I like Peter well enough in his place , '' said Felicity primly , `` but you make far too much of him , mother says . He is only a hired boy , and he has n't been well brought up , and has n't much education . I do n't think you should make such an equal of him as you do . '' Laughter rippled over the Story Girl 's face as shadow waves go over ripe wheat before a wind . `` Peter is a real gentleman , and he is more interesting than YOU could ever be , if you were brought up and educated for a hundred years , '' she said . `` He can hardly write , '' said Felicity . `` William the Conqueror could n't write at all , '' said the Story Girl crushingly . `` He never goes to church , and he never says his prayers , '' retorted Felicity , uncrushed . `` I do , too , '' said Peter himself , suddenly appearing through a little gap in the hedge . `` I say my prayers sometimes . '' This Peter was a slim , shapely fellow , with laughing black eyes and thick black curls . Early in the season as it was , he was barefooted .
His attire consisted of a faded , gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers ; but he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed XXXXX he really was .
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