The Methodist church stood on the slope of a little hill, back from the Main Road, and the parsonage was next door.

Between the church and the parsonage was a stretch of lawn, dotted with shrubs and cedars and shaded by two big silver-leaf poplars.

It was on this lawn that, provided the night was fair, the strawberry festival was to be held.

If the weather should be unpropitious the festival was to be in the church vestry.
All that day Dorinda was busy baking and icing cake.

She was not going to the festival--partly because I was going and she could not leave Mother--but principally because such affairs were altogether too frivolous to fit in her scheme of orthodoxy.