Dear knows where we'll all be this night next year.

Peter, it's your turn." "I will try," wrote Peter, "to say my prayers every night regular, and not twice one night because I don't expect to have time the next,--like I did the night before the party," he added.
"I s'pose you never said your prayers until we got you to go to church," said Felicity--who had had no hand in inducing Peter to go to church, but had stoutly opposed it, as recorded in the first volume of our family history.
"I did, too," said Peter.

"Aunt Jane taught me to say my prayers.

Ma hadn't time, being as father had run away; ma had to wash at night same as in day-time." "I shall learn to cook," wrote the Story Girl, frowning.
"You'd better resolve not to make puddings of--" began Felicity, then stopped as suddenly as if she had bitten off the rest of her sentence and swallowed it.

Cecily had nudged her, so she had probably remembered the Story Girl's threat that she would never tell another story if she was ever twitted with the pudding she had made from sawdust.