The Story Girl returned to the main point with a new argument . `` We have such a lovely minister , Peter . He looks just like the picture of St. John my father sent me , only he is old and his hair is white . I know you 'd like him . And even if you are going to be a Methodist it wo n't hurt you to go to the Presbyterian church . The nearest Methodist church is six miles away , at Markdale , and you ca n't attend there just now . Go to the Presbyterian church until you 're old enough to have a horse . '' `` But s ` posen I got too fond of being Presbyterian and could n't change if I wanted to ? '' objected Peter . Altogether , the Story Girl had a hard time of it ; but she persevered ; and one day she came to us with the announcement that Peter had yielded . `` 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 XXXXX 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 .
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