Peter took Dan and me aside one evening, as we were
on our way to the orchard with our dream books, saying
significantly that he wanted our advice. Accordingly,
we went round to the spruce wood, where the girls
would not see us to the rousing of their curiosity,
and then Peter told us of his dilemma.
“Last night I dreamed I was in church,”
he said. “I thought it was full of people,
and I walked up the aisle to your pew and set down,
as unconcerned as a pig on ice. And then I found
that I hadn’t a stitch of clothes on—NOT
ONE BLESSED STITCH. Now”— Peter
dropped his voice—“what is bothering
me is this—would it be proper to tell a
dream like that before the girls?”
I was of the opinion that it would be rather questionable;
but Dan vowed he didn’t see why. HE’D
tell it quick as any other dream. There was
nothing bad in it.
“But they’re your own relations,”
said Peter. “They’re no relation
to me, and that makes a difference. Besides,
they’re all such ladylike girls. I guess
I’d better not risk it. I’m pretty
sure Aunt Jane wouldn’t think it was proper to
tell such a dream. And I don’t want to
offend Fel—any of them.”
So Peter never told that dream, nor did he write it
down. Instead, I remember seeing in his dream
book, under the date of September fifteenth, an entry
to this effect:—
“Last nite i dremed a drem. it wasent a polit
drem so i won’t rite it down.”
The girls saw this entry but, to their credit be it
told, they never tried to find out what the “drem”
was. As Peter said, they were “ladies”
in the best and truest sense of that much abused appellation.
Full of fun and frolic and mischief they were, with
all the defects of their qualities and all the wayward
faults of youth. But no indelicate thought or
vulgar word could have been shaped or uttered in their
presence. Had any of us boys ever been guilty
of such, Cecily’s pale face would have coloured
with the blush of outraged purity, Felicity’s
golden head would have lifted itself in the haughty
indignation of insulted womanhood, and the Story Girl’s
splendid eyes would have flashed with such anger and
scorn as would have shrivelled the very soul of the
wretched culprit.
Dan was once guilty of swearing. Uncle Alec
whipped him for it—the only time he ever
so punished any of his children. But it was
because Cecily cried all night that Dan was filled
with saving remorse and repentance. He vowed
next day to Cecily that he would never swear again,
and he kept his word.
