ould be ever so much more suitable,"
suggested Sara Ray, "and it is kind of soothing and melancholy too."

"We are not going to sing anything," said the Story Girl coldly. "Do
you want to make the affair ridiculous? We will just fill up the grave
quietly and put a flat stone over the top."

"It isn't much like my idea of a funeral," muttered Sara Ray
discontentedly.

"Never mind, we're going to have a real obituary about him in Our
Magazine," whispered Cecily consolingly.

"And Peter is going to cut his name on top of the stone," added
Felicity. "Only we mustn't let on to the grown-ups until it is done,
because they might say it wasn't right."

We left the orchard, a sober little band, with the wind of the gray
twilight blowing round us. Uncle Roger passed us at the gate.

"So the last sad obsequies are over?" he remarked with a grin.

And we hated Uncle Roger. But we loved Uncle Blair because he said
quietly,

"And so you've buried your little comrade?"

So much may depend on the way a thing is said. But not even Uncle
Blair's sympathy could take the sting out of the fact that there was
no Paddy to get the froth that night at milking time. Felicity cried
bitterly all the time she was straining the milk. Many human beings have
gone to their graves unattended by as much real regret as followed that
one gray pussy cat to his.

CHAPTER XXX. PROPHECIES

"Here's a letter for you from father," said Felix, tossing it to me as
he came through the orchard gate. We had been picking apples all day,
but were taking a mid-afternoon rest around the well, with a cup of its
sparkling cold water to refresh us.

I opened the letter rather indifferently, for father, with all his
excellent and lovable traits, was but a poor correspondent; his letters
were usually very brief and very unimportant.

This letter was brief enough, but it was freighted with a message of
weighty import. I sat gazing stupidly at the sheet after I had read it
until Felix exclaimed,

"Bev, what's the matter with you? What's in that letter?"

"Father is coming home," I said dazedly. "He is to leave South America
in a fortnight and will be here in November to take us back to Toronto."

Everybody gasped. Sara Ray, of course, began to cry, which aggravated me
unreasonably.

"Well," said Felix, when he got his second wind, "I'll be awful glad
to see father again, but I tell you I don't like the thought of leaving
here."

I felt exactly the