The Story Girl 2 | 7.5 Hours Sleep | Complete, Part 2 Of 2

"The Story Girl" is a charming old 1911 novel by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery (also the author of "Anne of Green Gables" and "The Blue Castle").
"The Story Girl" narrates the delightful adventures of a group of young cousins and their friends in a rural farming community on Prince Edward Island, Canada.
The children's own adventures are interwoven with the fascinating storytelling of the precocious, 14-year-old protagonist, Sara Stanley - known to everyone locally as "The Story Girl"...enjoy!
This is a long-form track for sleep, covering the second half of the book and providing 7.5 hours of continuous sleep story support.

Transcript

Chapter 19 a dread prophecy. I've gotta go and begin stumping out the elderberry pasture this afternoon, " said Peter dolefully. I tell you, It's a tough job. Mr. Roger might wait for cool weather before he sets people to stumping out elderberries, And that's a fact. Why don't you tell him so? Asked Dan. It ain't my business to tell him things, Retorted Peter. I'm hired to do what I'm told, And I do it. But I can have my own opinion, All the same. It's gonna be a broiling hot day. We were all in the orchard. Except Felix who had gone to the post office. It was the forenoon of an August Saturday. Cecily and Sarah Ray, Who had come up to spend the day with us, Her mother having gone to town, Were eating Timothy roots. Bertha Lawrence, A Charlottetown girl who had visited Kitty Marr in June and had gone to school one day with her, Had eaten Timothy Roots, Affecting to consider them great delicacies. The fad was at once taken up by the Carlisle schoolgirls. Timothy Roots quite ousted Sowers and young raspberry sprouts, Both of which had the real merit of being quite toothsome, While Timothy roots were tough and tasteless, But Timothy roots were fashionable. Therefore, Timothy roots must be eaten. Hex of them must have been devoured in Carlisle that summer. Pat was there, Also, Padding about from one to the other on his black paws, Giving us friendly pokes and rubs. We all made much of him, Except Felicity, Who would not take any notice of him because he was the story girl's cat. We boys were sprawling on the grass. Our morning chores were done and the day was before us. We should have been feeling very comfortable and happy but. . . As a matter of fact, We were not particularly so. The Story Girl. Was sitting on the mint beside the well house, Weaving herself a wreath of buttercups. Felicity was sipping from the cup of clouded blue with an overdone air of unconcern. Each was acutely and miserably conscious of the other's presence and each was desirous of convincing the rest of us that the other was less than nothing. To her felicity could not succeed. The story girl managed it better. If it had not been for the fact that, In all our foregatherings, She was careful to sit as far from Felicity as possible, We might have been deceived. We had not passed a very pleasant week. Felicity and the Story Girl had not been speaking to each other and Consequently, There had been something rotten in the state of Denmark. An air of restraint was over all our games and conversations. On the preceding Monday, Felicity and the Story Girl had quarrelled over something. What the cause of the quarrel was, I cannot tell, Because I never knew. It remained a dead secret between the parties of the first and the second part forever. But it was more bitter than the general run of their tiffs and the consequences were apparent to all. They had not spoken to each other since. This was not because the rancour of either lasted so long. On the contrary, It passed speedily away, Not even one low-descending sun going down on their wrath. But dignity remained to be considered. Neither would speak first, And each obstacle obstinately declared that she would not speak first. No, Not in a hundred years. Neither argument, Entreaty, Nor expostulation had any effect on those two stubborn girls, Nor yet the tears of sweet Cecily, Who cried every night about it, And mingled in her pure little prayers fervent petitions that Felicity and the story story girl might make up. I don't know where you expect to go when you die, Felicity, She said tearfully, If you don't forgive people. I have forgiven her, Was Felicity's answer, But I am not going to speak first for all that. It's very wrong. And more than that, It's so uncomfortable, Complained Cecily. It spoils everything. Were they ever like this before? I asked Cecily as we talked the matter over privately in Uncle Stephen's walk. Never for so long, Said Cecily. They had a spell like this last summer and one the summer before, But they only lasted a couple of days. And who spoke first? Oh, The story girl. She got excited about something and spoke to Felicity before she thought, And then it was all right. But I'm afraid it isn't going to be like that this time. Don't you notice how careful the story girl is not to get excited? That is such a bad sign. We've just got to think up something that will excite her, That's all, " I said. I'm I'm. . . Praying about it, Said Cecily in a low voice, Her tear-wet lashes trembling against her pale, Round cheeks. Do you suppose it will do any good, Bev? Very likely, I assured her. Remember Sarah Ray and the money? That came from praying. I'm glad you think so, Said Cecily tremulously. Dan said, It was no use for me to bother praying about it. He said, If they couldn't speak, God might do something. And when they just wouldn't, It wasn't likely he would interfere. Dan does say such queer things. I'm so afraid he's going to grow up just like Uncle Robert Ward who never goes to church. And doesn't believe more than half the Bible is true. Which half does he believe is true? I inquired with unholy curiosity. Just the nice parts. He says, There's a heaven alright, But no. . . No. . . Hell? I don't want Dan to grow up like that. It isn't respectable. And you wouldn't want. All kinds of people crowding heaven now, Would you? Well, No, I suppose not. I agreed. Thinking of Billy Robinson. Of course. I can't help feeling sorry for those who have to go to the other place, " said Cecily compassionately. But I suppose they wouldn't be very comfortable in heaven either. They wouldn't feel at home. Andrew Marr said a simply dreadful thing about the other place one night last fall when Felicity and I were down to see Kitty and they were burning the potato stalks. He said. He believed the other place must be lots more interesting than heaven. Because fires were such jolly things. Now, Did you ever hear the light? I guess it depends a good deal on whether you're inside or outside the fires, I said. Oh. Andrew didn't really mean it, Of course. He just said it to sound smart and make us stare. The Mars are all like that. But anyhow, I'm going to keep on praying that something will happen to excite the story girl. I don't believe there is any use in praying that Felicity will speak first, Because I am sure she won't. But don't you suppose God could make her? I said, Feeling that it wasn't quite fair that the story girl should always have to speak first. If she had spoken first the other times, It was surely Felicity's turn this time. Wow. I believe. It would puzzle him, Said Cecily, Out of the depths of her experience with Felicity. Peter, As was to be expected, Took Felicity's part and said the story girl ought to speak first because she was the oldest. That, He said, Had always been his Aunt Jane's rule. Sarah Ray thought Felicity should speak first because the story girl was half an orphan? Felix tried to make peace between them and met the usual fate of all peacemakers. The story girl loftily told him that he was too young to understand. And Felicity said that fat boys should mind their own business. After that, Felix declared it would serve Felicity right if the story girl never spoke to her again. Dan had no patience with either of the girls, Especially Felicity. What they both want is a right good spanking, He said. If only a spanking would mend the matter. It was not likely it would ever be mended. Both Felicity and the Story Girl were rather too old to be spanked. And if they had not been, None of the grown-ups would have thought it worthwhile to administer so desperate a remedy for what they considered so insignificant a trouble. With the usual levity of grown-ups, They regarded the coldness between the girls as a subject of mirth and jest. And wrecked not that it was freezing, The genial current of our youthful souls? And blighting hours that should have been fair pages in our book of days. The story girl finished her wreath and put it on. The buttercups drooped over her high white brow and played peep with her glowing eyes. A dreamy smile hovered around her poppy red mouth. A significant smile, Which, To those of us skilled in its interpretation, Betokened the sentence which soon came. I know a story about a man who always had his own opinion. The story girl got no further. We never heard the story of the man who always had his own opinion. Felix came tearing up the lane with a newspaper in his hand. When a boy as fat as Felix runs at full speed on a broiling August forenoon, He has something to run for, As Felicity remarked. He must have got some bad news at the office, Said Sarah Ray. Oh, I hope nothing has happened to father, I exclaimed, Springing anxiously to my feet, A sick, Horrible feeling of fear running over me like a cool, Rippling wave. It's just as likely to be good news he is running for as bad, Said the story girl, Who was no believer in meeting trouble halfway. He wouldn't be running so fast for good news, Said Dan cynically. We were not left long in doubt. The orchard gate flew open and Felix was among us. One glimpse of his face told us that he was no bearer of glad tidings. He had been running hard and should have been Rubiconed. Instead, He was as pale as are the dead. I could not have asked him what was the matter had my life depended on it. It was Felicity who demanded impatiently of my shaking, Voiceless brother, Felix King. What has scared you? Felix held out the newspaper. It was the Charlottetown Daily Enterprise. It's bare. He gasped, Look. Read. Oh! Do you? Think it. True. The end of. The world. Is coming tomorrow. Two. O'clock. In the afternoon. Crash. Felicity had dropped the cup of clouded blue. Which had passed unscathed through so many changing years, And now, At last, Lay shattered on the stone of the well curb. At any other time we should all have been aghast over such a catastrophe. But it passed unnoticed now. What mattered if that all the cups in the world be broken today, If the cracker doom must sound tomorrow? Oh. Sarah Stanley Do you believe it? Do you? Gasped Felicity, Clutching the Story Girl's hand. Cecily's prayer had been answered. Excitement had come with a vengeance. And under its stress, Felicity had spoken first. But this, Like the breaking of the cup, Had no significance for us. At the moment. The Story Girl snatched the paper and read the announcement to a group on which sudden, Tense silence had fallen. Under a sensational headline, The last Trump will sound at two o'clock tomorrow, Was a paragraph to the effect that the leader of a certain noted sect in the United States had predicted that August 12th would be the Judgment Day. And that all his numerous followers were preparing for the dread event by prayer, Fasting and the making of appropriate white garments for Ascension robes. I laugh at the remembrance now. Until I recall the real horror of fear that enwrapped us in that sunny orchard that August morning of long ago. And then I laugh no more. We were only children, Be it remembered, With a very firm and simple faith that grown people knew much more than we did. And a rooted conviction that whatever you read in a newspaper must be true. If the Daily Enterprise said that August 12th was to be the Judgment Day, How were you going to get around it? Do you believe it, Sarah Stanley? Persisted felicity, Do you? No, I don't believe a word of it, Said the story girl. But for once, Her voice failed to carry conviction. Or rather, It carried conviction of the very opposite kind. It was borne in upon our miserable minds that if the story girl did not altogether believe it was true, She believed it might be true. And the possibility was almost as dreadful as the certainty It can't be true, Said Sarah Ray, Seeking refuge as usual in tears. Why, Everything looks just the same. Things couldn't look the same if the judgment day Who's going to be tomorrow? But That's just the way it's to come, I said uncomfortably. It tells you in the Bible, It's to come just like a thief in the night. But it tells you another thing in the Bible too, Said Cecily eagerly. It says nobody knows when the judgment day is to come, Not even the angels in heaven. Now, If the angels in heaven don't know, Do you suppose the editor of the Enterprise can know it? And him a grit too. I guess he knows as much about it as a Tory would, Retorted the story girl. Uncle Roger was a Liberal and Uncle Alec a Conservative, And the girls held fast to the political traditions of their respective households. But it isn't really the Enterprise editor at all who is saying it. It's a man in the States who claims to be a prophet. If he is a prophet, Perhaps he has found out somehow, And it's in the paper too. And that's printed as well as the Bible, Said Dan. Well. . . I'm going to depend on the Bible, " said Cecily. I don't believe it's the judgment day tomorrow, But I'm scared for all that, " she added piteously. That was exactly the position of us all. As in the case of the bell-ringing ghost, We did not believe, But we trembled. Nobody might have known when the Bible was written, Said Dan, But maybe somebody knows now. Why? The Bible was written thousands of years ago and that paper was printed this very morning. There's been time to find out. Ever so much more. I Want to do so many things, Said the story girl, Plucking off her crown of buttercup gold with a tragic gesture. But if it's the judgment day tomorrow. . . I won't have time to do any of them. It can't be much worse than dying, I suppose, Said Felix, Grasping at any straw of comfort. I'm awful glad I've got into the habit of going to church and Sunday school this summer, " said Peter very soberly. I wish I'd made up my mind before this whether to be a Presbyterian or a Methodist. Do you suppose it's too late now? That doesn't matter, " said Cecily earnestly. If you're a Christian, Peter, That is all that's necessary. But it's. . . Too late for that, Said Peter miserably. I can't turn into a Christian between this and two o'clock tomorrow. I'll just have to be satisfied with making up my mind to be a Presbyterian or a Methodist. I wanted to wait till I got old enough to make out what was the difference between them, But. I'll have to chance it now. I guess I'll be. Presbyterian. Because I want to be like the rest of you. Yes. I'll be a Presbyterian. I know a story. About Judy Pinot and the word Presbyterian, Said the story girl. But I can't tell it now. If tomorrow isn't the Judgment Day. I'll tell it Monday. If I had known that tomorrow might be the judgment day. I wouldn't have quarrelled with you last Monday, Sarah Stanley, Or been so horrid and sulky all the week. Indeed, I wouldn't, " said Felicity with very unusual humility. Ah, Felicity. . . We were all. In the depths of our pitiful little souls, Reviewing the innumerable things we would or would not have done if we had known. What a black and endless list they made, Those sins of omission and commission that rushed accusingly across our young memories. For us, The leaves of the Book of Judgment were already opened, And we stood at the bar of our own consciences, Than which for youth or eld, There can be no more dread tribunal. I thought of all the evil deeds of my short life, Of pinching Felix to make him cry out at family prayers, Of playing truant from Sunday school and going fishing, One day, Of a certain fib. No. No, Away from this awful hour with all such euphonious evasions of a lie I had once told. Of many a selfish and unkind word and thought and action and tomorrow might be the great and terrible day of the last accounting. Oh, If I had only been a better boy. The quarrel was as much my fault as yours, Felicity, Said the story girl, Putting her arm around Felicity. We can't undo it now. But if tomorrow isn't the judgment day, We must be careful. Careful never to quarrel again. Oh, I wish father was here. He will be, Said Cecily. If it's the judgment day for Prince Edward Island, It will be for Europe too. I wish we could just know whether what the paper says is true or not, Said Felix desperately. It seems to me I could brace up if I just knew. But to whom could we appeal? Uncle Alec was away and would not be back until late that night. Neither Aunt Janet nor Uncle Roger were people to whom we cared to apply in such a crisis. We were afraid of the judgment day, But we were almost equally afraid of being laughed at. How about Aunt Olivia? No. Aunt Olivia has gone to bed with a sick headache and mustn't be disturbed. Said the story girl. She said I must get dinner ready because there was plenty of cold meat and nothing to do but boil the potatoes and peas and set the table. I don't know how I can put my thoughts into it when the judgement day may be tomorrow. What is the good of asking the grown-ups? They don't know anything more about this than we do. But if they'd just say they didn't believe it, It. . . Would be a sort of comfort, " said Cecily. I suppose the minister would know, But He's away on his vacation, Said Felicity. Anyhow. I'll go and ask Mother what she thinks of it. Felicity picked up the Enterprise and betook herself to the house. We awaited her return in dire suspense. Well. . . What does she say? Asked Cecily tremulously. She said. Run away and don't bother me. I haven't any time. For your nonsense. Responded Felicity. In an injured tone. And I said, But Ma, The paper says tomorrow. Is the judgment day. And Ma just said, Judgment. Fiddle sticks. Well. . . That's kind of comforting. Said Peter. She can't put any faith in it, Or. . . She'd be more worked up. If it only wasn't Printed, Said Dan gloomily. Let's all go over and ask Uncle Roger, " said Felix desperately. That we should make Uncle Roger a court of last resort. Indicated all too clearly the state of our minds, But we went. Uncle Roger was in his barnyard hitching his black mare into the buggy. His copy of the Enterprise was sticking out of his pocket. He looked, As we saw with sinking hearts, Unusually grave and preoccupied, There was not a glimmer of a smile about his face. You ask him, Said Felicity, Nudging the story girl. Uncle Roger, Said the story girl, The golden notes of her voice threaded with fear and appeal, The enterprise says that tomorrow is The Judgment Day? Is it? Do you think it is? I'm afraid so. Said Uncle Roger, Gravely. The Enterprise is always very careful to print only reliable news. But. . . Mother doesn't believe it, Cried Felicity. Uncle Roger shook his head. That is just the trouble, He said. People won't believe it. Till it's too late. I'm going straight to Markdale to pay a man there some money I owe him. And after dinner, I'm going to Summerside to buy me a new suit. My old one is too shabby for the judgment day. He got into his buggy and drove away, Leaving eight distracted mortals behind him. Wow. I suppose that settles it, Said Peter in despairing tone. Is there anything we can do? To prepare. Asked Cecily. I wish I had a white dress like you girls, Sobbed Sarah Ray, But I haven't. And it's too late to get one. Oh. I wish i had minded what ma said better. I wouldn't have disobeyed her so often if i'd thought the judgment day was so near. When I go home. I'm going to tell her about going to the magic lantern show. I'm not sure. That Uncle Roger meant. What he said, Remarked the story girl. I couldn't get a look into his eyes. If he was trying to hoax us, There would have been a twinkle in them. He can never help that. You know, He would think it a great joke to frighten us like this. It's really dreadful to have no grown-ups you can depend on. We could depend on Father if he was here, Said Dan stoutly. He'd tell us the truth. He would tell us what he thought was true, Dan. But he couldn't know. He's not such a well-educated man as the editor of the Enterprise. No. There's nothing to do but wait and see. Let us go into the house and read just what the Bible does say about it, Suggested Cecily. We crept in carefully, Lest we disturb Aunt Olivia, And Cecily found and read the significant portion of Holy Writ. There was little comfort for us in that vivid and terrible picture. Well, Said the story girl finally, I must go and get the potatoes ready. I suppose they must be boiled, Even if it is the Judgement Day tomorrow. But I don't believe it is. And I've got to go and stump elderberries, Said Peter. I don't see how I can do it. Go away back there alone, I'll feel scared to death the whole time. Tell uncle roger that and say if tomorrow is the end of the world, That there is no good in stumping any more fields, I suggested. Yes, And if he lets you off, Then we'll know he was in earnest, Chimed in Cecily. But if he still says you must go, That'll be a sign he doesn't believe it. Leaving the story girl and Peter to peel their potatoes, The rest of us went home, Where Aunt Janet, Who had gone to the well and found the fragments of the old blue cup, Gave poor Felicity a bath. Bitter scolding about it, But Felicity bore it very patiently. Nay, More, She seemed to delight in it. Ma can't believe tomorrow is the last day, Or she wouldn't scold like that, She told us. And this comforted us until after dinner, When the story girl and Peter came over and told us that Uncle Roger had really gone to Somerset. Then we plunged down into fear and wretchedness again. But he said, I must go and stump elderberries just the same, Said Peter. He said it might not be the judgment day tomorrow, Though he believed it was, And it would keep me out of mischief. But I just can't stand it back there alone. Some of you fellas must come with me. I don't want you to work, But just for company. It was finally decided that Dan and Felix should go. I wanted to go also, But the girls protested. You must stay and keep us cheered up, Implored Felicity. I just don't know how I'm ever going to put in the afternoon. I promised Kitty Ma that I'd go down and spend it with her, But I can't now. And I can't knit any at my lace. I'd just keep thinking, What is the use? Perhaps it'll all be burned up tomorrow. So I stayed with the girls, And a miserable afternoon we had of it. The story girl again and again declared that she didn't believe it, But When we asked her to tell story, She evaded it with a flimsy excuse. Cecily pestered Aunt Janet's life out, Asking repeatedly, Ma, Will you be? Washing monday Ma, Will you be going to prayer meeting Tuesday night? Maw. Will you be? Preserving raspberries next week? And various similar questions. It was a huge comfort to her that Aunt Janet always said, Yes, Or of course, As if there could be no question about it. Sarah Ray cried until I wondered how one small head could contain all the tears she shed. But i do not believe she was half as much frightened as disappointed that she had no white dress. In mid-afternoon, Cecily came downstairs with her forget-me-not jug in her hand, A dainty bit of china, Wreathed with dark blue forget-me-nots, Which Cecily prized highly, And in which she always kept her toothbrush. Sarah? I am going to give you this jug. She said solemnly. Now, Sarah had always coveted this particular jug. She stopped crying long enough to clutch it delightedly. Cecily Thank you. Are you sure you won't want it back if tomorrow. . . Isn't the judgment day? No. It's yours for good, Said Cecily, With the high remote air of one to whom forget-me-not jugs and all such pumps and vanities of the world were as a tale that is told. Are you going to give anyone your cherry vase? Asked Felicity, Trying to speak indifferently. Felicity had never admired the forget-me-not jug, But she had always hankered after the cherry vase, An affair of white glass with a cluster of red glass cherries and golden green glass leaves on its side, Which Aunt Olivia had given Cecily one Christmas. No, I'm not, Answered Cecily with a change of tone. Oh well. I don't care, Said Felicity quickly, Only If tomorrow is the last day, The cherry vase won't be much use to you. I guess it will be as much use to me as to anyone else, Said Cecily indignantly. She had sacrificed her dear forget-me-not jug to satisfy some pang of conscience or propitiate some threatening fate, But surrender her precious cherry vase. Pause. She could not and would not. Felicity needn't be giving any hints. With the gathering shades of night, Our plight became pitiful. In the daylight, Surrounded by homely, Familiar sights and sounds, It was not so difficult to fortify our souls with a cheering incredulity. But now, In this time of shadows, Dread belief clutched us and wrung us with terror. Hurrah! If there had been one wise older friend to tell us, In serious fashion, That we need not be afraid, That the enterprise paragraph was naught, Save the idle report of a deluded fanatic, It would have been well for us. But there was not. Our grown-ups instead considered our terror an exquisite Jest. At that very moment, Aunt Olivia, Who had recovered from her headache, And Aunt Janet were laughing in the kitchen over the state the children were in, Because they were afraid the end of the world was close at hand. Aunt Janet's throaty gurgle and Aunt Olivia's trilling mirth floated out through the open window. Perhaps they'll laugh on the other side of their faces tomorrow, " said Dan with gloomy satisfaction. We were sitting on the cellar hatch, Watching what might be our last sunset over the dark hills of time. Peter was with us. It was his last Sunday to go home, But he had elected to remain. If tomorrow is the Judgment Day. I want to be with you fellows, He said. Sarah Ray had also yearned to stay, But could not because her mother had told her she must be home before dark. Never mind sarah comforted cecily it's not to be till two o'clock tomorrow so You'll have plenty of time to get up here before anything happens. Their might. "'Be a mistake, ' sobbed Sarah. "'It might be. ' two o'clock tonight! Instead of tomorrow? It might indeed. This was a new horror which had not occurred to us before. "'I'm sure I won't sleep a wink tonight, ' said Felix. "'The paper says two o'clock tomorrow, ' said Dan. "'You needn't worry, Sarah. But Sarah departed, Weeping. She did not, However, Forget to carry the forget-me-not jug with her. All things considered, Her departure was a relief. Such a constantly tearful damsel was not a pleasant companion. Cecily and Felicity and the Story Girl did not cry. They were made of finer, Firmer stuff. Dry-eyed, With such courage as they might, They faced whatever might be in store for them. I wonder. Where we'll all be. This time tomorrow night, Said Felix mournfully. As we watched the sunset between the dark fir boughs. It was an ominous sunset. The sun dropped down amid dark, Livid clouds that turned sullen shades of purple and fiery red behind him. I hope we'll be all together. Wherever we are, " said Cecily, Gently. Nothing can be so very bad, Then. I'm gonna read the Bible all tomorrow forenoon. Said Peter. When Aunt Olivia came out to go home, The story girl asked her permission to stay all night with Felicity and Cecily. Aunt Olivia assented lightly, Swinging her hat on her arm, And including us all in a friendly smile. She looked very pretty, With her big blue eyes and warm-hued golden hair. We loved Aunt Olivia. But just now we resented her having laughed at us with Aunt Janet. And we refused to smile back. What a sulky, Sulky lot of little people, Said Aunt Olivia, Going away across the yard, Holding her pretty dress up from the dewy grass. Peter resolved to stay all night with us too, Not troubling himself about anybody's permission. When we went to bed, It was settling down for a stormy night, And the rain was streaming wetly on the roof, As if the world, Like Sarah Ray, Were weeping, Because it's The end was so near. Nobody forgot or hurried over his prayers that night. We would dearly have loved to leave the candle burning, But Aunt Janet's decree regarding this was as inexorable as any of Mead and Persia. Out the candle must go. Go. And we lay there, Quaking, With the wild rain streaming down on the roof above us, And the voices of the storm wailing through the writhing spruce trees. Chapter 20 The Judgment Sunday Sunday morning broke, Dull and grey. The rain had ceased, But the clouds hung dark and brooding above a world which, In its windless calm following the spent storm-throw, Seemed to us to be waiting till judgment spoke the doom of fate. We were all up early. None of us, It appeared, Had slept well, And some of us not at all. The story girl had been among the latter, And she looked very pale and wan, With black shadows under her deep-set eyes. Peter, However, Had slept soundly enough after twelve o'clock, When you've been stumping out elderberries all the afternoon. It'll take more than the judgment day to keep you awake all night, " he said. But when I woke up this morning. . . It was just awful. I'd forgot it for a moment and then it all came back with a rush and I was worse scared than before. Cecily was pale, But brave. For the first time in years, She had put her hair up in curlers on Saturday night. It was brushed and braided with Puritan simplicity. If it's the Judgment Day, I don't care whether my hair is curly or not, She said. Wow. Said Aunt Janet when we all descended to the kitchen, This is the first time you young ones have ever all got up without being called and that's a fact. At breakfast, Our appetites were poor. How could the grown-ups eat as they did? After breakfast and the necessary chores, There was the forenoon to be lived through. Peter, True to his word, Got out his Bible and began to read from the first chapter in Genesis. I won't have time to read it all through, I suppose, He said, But I'll get along as far as I can. There was no preaching in Carlisle that day, And Sunday school was not till the evening. Cecily got out her lesson slip and studied the lesson conscientiously. The rest of us did not see how she could do it. We could not. That was very certain. If it isn't the judgment day i want to have the lesson learned she said and If it is, I'll. . . Feel I've done what was right. I never found it so hard to remember the golden text before. The long, Dragging hours were hard to endure. We roamed restlessly about, And went to and fro, All save Peter, Who still steadily read away at his Bible. He was through Genesis by eleven and beginning on Exodus. There's a. . . Good deal of it i don't understand he said but i read every word and that's the main thing That story about Joseph and his brother? It was so interesting, I almost forgot about the judgment day. But the long, Drawn-out dread was beginning to get on Dan's nerves. If it is the judgment day, He growled as we went in to dinner. I wish it had hurry up and have it over. Oh, Dan! " cried Felicity and Cecily together in a chorus of horror. But The story girl looked as if she rather sympathized with Dan. If we had eaten little at breakfast, We could eat still less at dinner. After dinner, The clouds rolled away. And the sun came joyously and gloriously out. This, We thought, Was a good omen. Felicity opined that it wouldn't have cleared up if it was the judgment day. Nevertheless, We dressed ourselves carefully and the girls put on their white dresses. Sarah Ray came up, Still crying, Of course. She increased our uneasiness by saying that her mother believed the Enterprise paragraph and was afraid that the end of the world was really at hand. That's why she let me come up, " she sobbed. If she hadn't been afraid, Don't believe she would have let me come up. But I'd have died if I couldn't have come. And she wasn't a bit cross when I told her I had gone to the Magic Lantern Show. That's an awful bad sign. I hadn't a white dress, But I put on my white muslin apron with the frills. That seems kind of queer, Said Felicity doubtfully. You wouldn't put on an apron to go to church. And so it doesn't seem as if it was. Proper to put it on for Judgment Day either. Well. . . It's the best I could do, Said Sarah disconsolately. I wanted to have something white on. It's just like a dress, Only it hasn't sleeves. Let's go into the orchard and wait, Said the story girl. It's one o'clock now, So in another hour we'll know the worst. We'll leave the front door open and we'll hear the big clock when it strikes two. No better plan being suggested, We betook ourselves to the orchard and sat on the boughs of Uncle Alec's tree because the grass was wet. The world was beautiful and peaceful and green. Overhead was a dazzling blue sky, Spotted with heaps of white cloud. I don't believe there's any fear of it being the last day, Said Dan, Beginning a whistle out of sheer bravado. Well. Don't whistle on Sunday, Anyhow, " said Felicity severely. I don't see a thing about Methodists or Presbyterians as far as I've gone, And I'm most through Exodus, Said Peter suddenly. When does it begin to tell about them? There's nothing about Methodists or Presbyterians in the Bible. Said Felicity scornfully. Peter looked amazed. Well, How did they happen then? He asked. When did they begin to be? I've often thought it's such a strange thing that there isn't a word about either of them in the Bible, " said Cecily, Especially when it mentions Baptists, Or at least one Baptist, Wow. Anyhow, Said Peter, Even if. . . It isn't. The Judgment Day, I'm going to keep on reading the Bible. Until I've got clean through. I never thought it was such an interesting book. Sounds. Simply. Frightful. To hear you call the Bible. An interesting one. Book. Said Felicity with a shudder at the sacrilege. Why? You might be talking about any common book. Eye. Didn't mean any harm said peter crestfallen The Bible is an interesting book, Said the story girl coming to Peter's rescue, And there are magnificent stories in it. Yes, Felicity Magnificent If the world doesn't come to an end, I'll tell you the story of Ruth next Sunday. Or Look here, I'll tell it anyhow. That's a promise. Wherever we are, Next Sunday, I'll tell you about Ruth. Why you wouldn't. Tell stories in heaven? " said Cecily in a very timid voice. Why not? Said the story girl with a flash of her eyes. Indeed I shall. I'll tell stories as long as I have a tongue to talk with or anyone to listen. Aye, Doubtless. That dauntless spirit would soar triumphantly above the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds, Taking with it all its own wild sweetness and daring. Even the young-eyed cherubim, Choiring on meadows of Asphodel, Might cease their harping for a time, To listen to a tale of the vanished earth, Told by that golden tongue. Some vague thought of this was in our minds as we looked at her and somehow it comforted us. Not even the judgment was so greatly to be feared if, After it, We were the same. Our own precious little identities, Unchanged. It must be getting handy too, " said Cecily. It seems as if we'd been waiting here for ever so much longer than an hour. Conversation languished. We watched and waited, Nervously. The moments dragged by, Each seeming an hour Would two o'clock never come and end the suspense? We all became very tense. Even Peter had to stop reading. Any unaccustomed sound or sight in the world about us struck on our taut senses like the trump of doom. A cloud passed over the sun, And as the sudden shadow swept across the orchard we turned pale. And trembled. A wagon rumbling over a plank bridge in the hollow made Sarah Ray start up with a shriek. The slamming of a barn door over at Uncle Roger's caused the cold perspiration to break out on our faces. I don't believe it's the judgment day, Said Felix. And I never have believed it, But. . . I wish that clock would strike two. Can't you tell us a story to pass the time? I entreated the story girl. She shook her head. No. It would be no use to try. But. . . If this isn't the Judgment Day, I'll have a great one to tell of us being so scared. A cat presently came galloping up the orchard, Carrying in his mouth a big field mouse, Which, Sitting down before us, He proceeded to devour, Body and bones, Afterwards licking his chops with great satisfaction. It can't be the judgment day said sarah ray brightening up paddy would never be eating mice if it was if that clock doesn't soon strike two. I shall go out of my seven senses, Declared Cecily with unusual vehemence. Time always seems long when you're waiting said the story girl but It does seem as if we had been here more than an hour. Maybe the clock struck and we didn't hear it, Suggested Dan. Somebody had better go and see. I'll go, Said Cecily. I suppose even if anything happens, I'll have time to get back to you. We watched her white-clad figure pass through the gate and enter the front door. A few minutes passed, Or a few years, We could not have told which, Then Cecily came running at full speed back to us. But when she reached us, She trembled so much that at first she could not speak. What is it? Is it past two? " implored the story girl. It. Four. Said Cecily with a gasp. The old clock! Isn't going. Mother forgot to wind it up last night. And it stopped. It's four by the kitchen clock. It isn't the judgment day. And tea is ready. And mother says to come in. We looked at each other. Realising what our dread had been, Now that it was lifted, It was not the Judgment Day. The world and life were still before us, With all their potent lure of years unknown. I'll never believe anything I read in the papers again. Said Dan. Rushing to the opposite extreme. I told you the Bible was more to be depended on than the newspapers, Said Cecily triumphantly. Sarah Ray and Peter and the Story Girl went home, And we went in to tea with royal appetites. Afterwards, As we dressed for Sunday school upstairs, Our spirits carried us away to such an extent that Aunt Janet had to come twice to the foot of the stairs and inquire severely Children, Have you forgotten what day this is? Isn't it nice? That we're going to live a spell longer in this nice world, " said Felix as we walked down the hill. Yes, And Felicity and the story girl are speaking again said Cecily happily and Felicity did speak first I said yes but it took the judgment day to make her I wish, Added Cecily with a sigh, That I hadn't been in quite such a hurry, Giving away my forget-me-not jug. And I wish I hadn't been in such a hurry deciding I'd be a Presbyterian, Said Peter. Well, It's not too late for that, Said Dan. You can change your mind now. "'No, Sir, ' said Peter with a flash of spirit. "'I ain't one of the kind. '" that says they'll be something just because they're scared, And when the scare is over, Go back on it. I said I'd be Presbyterian and I mean to stick to it. You said you knew a story that had something to do with presbyterians i said to the story girl tell us it now Oh. No, It isn't. Isn't the right kind of story to tell on Sunday, " she replied. But I'll tell it tomorrow morning. Accordingly, We heard it the next morning in the orchard. Long ago, When Judy Pinot was young, Said the story girl, She was hired with Mrs. Elder Fruin, The first Mrs. Elder Fruin. Mrs. Fruin had been a school teacher and she was very particular as to how people talked and the grammar they used, And she didn't like anything but refined words. One very hot day, She heard Judy Pinot say she was all in a sweat. Mrs. Fruin was greatly shocked and said, Judy, You shouldn't say that. It's horses that sweat. You should say you are in a perspiration. Wow. Judy promised she'd remember. Because she liked Mrs. Fruin and was anxious to please her. Not long afterwards, Judy was scrubbing the kitchen floor one morning, And when Mrs. Frewen came in, Judy looked up and said, Quite proud over using the right word. Oh, Miss Fruin, Ain't it awful hot? I declare I'm all in a Presbyterian. Chapter 21, Dreamers of Dreams. August went out and September came in. Harvest was ended, And though Summer was not yet gone, Her face was turned, Westering. The asters lettered her retreating footsteps in a purple script, And over the hills and valleys hung a faint blue smoke. As if nature were worshipping at her woodland altar. The apples began to burn red on the bending boughs. Crickets sang day and night. Squirrels chattered secrets of polychinelle in the spruces. The sunshine was as thick and yellow as molten gold. School opened, And we, Small denizens of the hill farms, Lived happy days of harmless work and necessary play, Closing in nights of peaceful, Undisturbed slumber, Under a roof watched over by autumnal stars. At least our slumbers were peaceful and undisturbed until. . . Our orgy of dreaming began. I would really like to know what a special kind of devil tree you young friar up to this time, Said Uncle Roger one evening as he passed through the orchard with his gun on his shoulder bound for the swamp. We were sitting in a circle before the pulpit stone, Each writing diligently in an exercise book and eating the Rev. Mr. Scott's plums, Which always reached their prime of juicy, Golden-green flesh and bloomy-blue skin in September. The Rev. Mr. Scott was dead and gone, But those plums certainly kept his memory green, As his forgotten sermons could never have done. You said Felicity in a shocked tone when Uncle Roger had passed by. Uncle Roger swore Oh, No, He didn't, Said the story girl quickly. Deviltry isn't swearing at all. It only means extra bad mischief. Well, It's not a very nice word anyhow, Said Felicity. No. It isn't, Agreed the story girl with a regretful sigh. It's very expressive, But it isn't nice. That is the way with so many words. They're expressive but they're not nice and so a girl can't use them. The story girl sighed again. She loved expressive words and treasured them as some girls might have treasured jewels. To her, They were as lustrous pearls, Threaded on the crimson cord of a vivid fancy. When she met with a new one, She uttered it over and over to herself in solitude. You. Weighing it, Caressing it, Infusing it with the radiance of her voice. Making it her own, In all its possibilities, Forever. Well. Anyhow. . . It isn't a suitable word in this case. Insisted Felicity, We are not up to any devil. Any. Extra bad mischief. Writing down one's dreams isn't mischief at all. Certainly, It wasn't. Surely not even the straightest sex? Of the grown-ups could call it so. If writing down your dreams with agonising care as to composition and spelling for Who knew that. . . The eyes of generations unborn might not read the record. Were not a harmless amusement. Anything be called so? I try not. We had been at it for a fortnight. And during that time, We only lived to have dreams and write them down. The story girl had originated the idea one evening in the rustling, Rain-wet ways of the spruce wood, Where we were picking gum after a day of showers. When we had picked enough, We sat down on the moss-grown stones at the end of a long arcade, Where it opened out on the harvest golden valley below us, Our jaws exercising themselves vigorously on the spoil of our climbings. We were never allowed to chew gum in school or in company, But in wood and field, Orchard and hayloft, Such rules were in abeyance. My Aunt Jane used to say it wasn't polite to chew gum anywhere, Said Peter rather ruefully. "'I don't suppose your Aunt Jane knew all the rules of etiquette, ' said Felicity, Designing to crush Peter with a big word borrowed from the family guide. But Peter was not to be so crushed. He had in him a certain type toughness of fibre. That would have been proof against a whole dictionary. She did too, He retorted. My Aunt Jane was a real lady. Even if she was only a Craig, She knew all those rules and she kept them. When there was nobody around to see her, Just the same as when anyone was. And she was smart. If father had had Arthur get up and get, I wouldn't be a hired boy today. Have you any idea where your father is? Asked Dan. No, Said Peter indifferently. The last we heard of him, He was in the main lumber woods. That was three years ago. I don't know where he is now. And added Peter deliberately taking his gum from his mouth to make his statement more impressive. I don't care. Oh. Pizza! That sounds dreadful, Said Cecily. Your own father? Well, Said Peter defiantly, If your own father had run away when you was a baby and left your mother to earn her living by washing and working out, I guess you wouldn't care much about him either. Perhaps your father may come home some of these days with A huge fortune, Suggested the story girl. Perhaps pigs may whistle. But they pour mouths for it. Was all the answer Peter deigned to this charming suggestion? There goes Mr Campbell down the road, Said Dan. That's his new mare. Isn't she a dandy? She's got a skin like black satin. He calls her Betty Sherman. I don't think so. It's very nice to call a horse after your own grandmother. Said Felicity. Betty Sherman would have thought it a compliment, Said the story girl. Maybe she would. She couldn't have been very nice herself. Or she would never have gone and asked a man to marry her. Said Felicity. Why not? Goodness me. It was dreadful. Would you do such a thing yourself? Wow. I don't know, " said the story girl, Her eyes gleaming with impish laughter. If I wanted him dreadfully, And he wouldn't do the asking, Perhaps I would. Rather die an old maid. 40 times over! " exclaimed Felicity. Nobody as pretty as you will ever be an old maid, Felicity, Said Peter, Who never put too fine an edge on his compliments. Felicity tossed her golden-tressed head and tried to look angry, But made a dismal failure of it. It wouldn't be you ladylike to ask anyone to marry you, You know? " argued Cecily. I don't suppose the family guide would think so, Agreed the story girl lazily with some sarcasm in her voice. The Story Girl never held the family guide in such reverence as did Felicity and Cecily. They poured over the etiquette column every week and could have told you, On demand, Just exactly what kind of gloves should be worn at a wedding, What you should say when introducing or being introduced, And how you ought to look when your best young man came to see you. They say Mrs Richard Cook asked her husband to marry her, Said Dan. Uncle Roger says she didn't exactly ask him, But she helped the lame dog over the stile so slick that Richard was engaged to her before he knew what had happened to him, Said the story girl. I know a story about Mrs. Richard Cook's grandmother. She was one of those women who were always saying, I told you so. Take notice, Felicity, Said Dan aside. And she was very stubborn. Soon after she was married, She and her husband quarrelled about an apple tree they had planted in their orchard. The label was lost. He said it was a famoose, And she declared it was a yellow transparent. They fought over it till the neighbours came out to listen. Finally, He got so angry that he told her. To shut up. They didn't have any family guide in those days, So he didn't know it wasn't polite to say shut up to your wife. I suppose she thought she would teach him manners for, Would you believe it, That woman did shut up and never spoke one single word to her husband for five years. And then, In five years, Time the tree bore apples and they were yellow transparents. And then she spoke at last. She said, I told you so. And did she talk to him after that as usual asked sarah ray Oh, Yes, She was just the same as she used to be, Said the story girl, Wearily, But that It doesn't belong to the story. It stops. When she spoke at last. You'll never forget it. Satisfied to leave a story where it should stop Sarah Ray. Well. . . I always like to know what happens afterwards, Said Sarah Ray. Uncle Roger. Says he wouldn't want a wife he could never quarrel with. Remarked Dan. He says it would be too tame a life for him. I wonder. If Uncle Roger will always stay a bachelor, " said Cecily. He seems real happy, Observed Peter. Ma says that it's all right as long as he is a bachelor because he won't take anyone, Said Felicity. But if he wakes up someday and finds he is an old bachelor because he can't get anyone, You it'll have a very different flavour. If your Aunt Olivia was to up and get married, What would your Uncle Roger do for a housekeeper? Asked Peter. Oh. Aunt Olivia will never be married now, " said Felicity. Why? She'll be 29 next January. Well of course that's pretty old admitted peter but She might find someone who wouldn't mind that, Seeing she's so pretty. It would be awful splendid and exciting to have a wedding in the family wouldn't it? " said Cecily. I've never seen anyone married. And I'd just love to. I've been to four funerals, But not to one single wedding. I've never even got to a funeral, Said Sarah Ray gloomily. There's the wedding veil of the proud princess, Said Cecily, Pointing to a long drift of filmy vapour in the southwestern sky. And look at that sweet pink cloud below it, Added Felicity. Maybe that little pink cloud is a dream. Getting all ready to float down into somebody's sleep, Suggested the story girl. I had a perfectly awful dream last night, " said Cecily with a shudder of remembrance. I dreamed I was on a desert island inhabited by tigers and natives with two heads. Oh, The story girl looked at Cecily half-reproachfully. Why couldn't you tell it better than that? If I had such a dream… I could tell it so that everybody else would feel as if they had dreamed it too. Wow I'm not. You, Counted Cecily. And I wouldn't want to frighten anyone, As I was frightened. It was an awful dream. But it was kind of interesting too. I've had some real interesting dreams said peter but i can't remember them long i wish i could Why don't you write them down? Suggested the story girl. Oh. She turned upon us, A face illuminated with a sudden inspiration. I've an idea! Let us each get an exercise book and write down all our dreams, Just as we dream them. We'll see who'll have the most interesting collection. And we'll have them to read and laugh over when we're old and grey. Instantly, We all saw ourselves and each other by inner vision, Old and grey. All but the story go. We could not picture her as old. Always, As long as she lived, So it seemed to us, Must she have sleek brown curls, A voice like the sound of a harp string in the wind, And eyes that were stars of eternal youth. Chapter 22 The Dream Books The next day, The story girl coaxed Uncle Roger to take her to Markdale, And there she bought our dream books. They were ten cents apiece, With rolled pages and mottled green covers. My own lies open beside me as I write, Its yellowed pages inscribed with the visions that haunted my childish slumbers. On those nights of long ago. On the cover is pasted a ladies visiting card on which is written the dream book of Beverly King. Cecily had a packet of visiting cards which she was hoarding against the day when she would be grown up and could put the calling etiquette of the family guide into practice. But she generously gave us all one a piece for the covers of our dream books. As I turn the pages and glance over the records, Each one beginning, Last night I dreamed The past comes very vividly back to me. I see that bowery orchard shining in memory with a soft glow of beauty. The light that never was on land or sea. Where we sat on those September evenings and wrote down our dreams when the cares of the day were over and there was nothing to interfere with the pleasing throws of composition. Peter, Dan, Felix, Cecily, Felicity, Sarah Rae, The story girl, They are all around me once more, In the sweet-scented, Fading grasses, Each with open dream books and pencil in hand, Now writing busily, Now staring fixedly into space in search of some elusive word or phrase which might best describe the indescribable. I hear their laughing voices. I see their bright, Unclouded eyes. In this little old book, Filled with cramped, Boyish writing, There is a spell of white magic that sets the years at nought. Beverly King is a boy once more, Writing down his dreams in the old King Orchard on the Homestead Hill, Blown over by musky winds. Opposite to him sits the Story Girl, With her scarlet rosetted head, Her beautiful bare feet crossed before her. One slender hand propping her high white brow, On either side of which fall her glossy curls. There, To the right, Is sweet Cecily, Of the dear brown eyes, With a little bloated dictionary beside her. For you dream of so many things you can't spell, Or be expected to spell, When you are only eleven. Next to her sits Felicity, Beautiful, And conscious that she is beautiful with hair of spun sunshine and sea blue eyes and all the roses of that vanished summer abloom in her cheeks. Peter is beside her, Of course, Sprawled flat on his stomach among the grasses, One hand clutching his black curls with his dream book on a small round stone before him. For only so can Peter compose at all. And even then he finds it hard work. He can handle a hoe more deftly than a pencil and his spelling even with all his frequent appeals to Cecily. Is a fearful and wonderful thing. As for punctuation, He never attempts it. Beyond an occasional period, Jotted down whenever he happens to think of it, Whether in the right place or not. The story girl goes over his dreams after he has written them out and puts in the commas and semicolons and straightens out the sentences. Felix sits on the right of the story girl, Fat and stodgy, Grimly in earnest, Even over dreams. He writes with his knees stuck up to form a writing desk and he always frowns fiercely the whole time. Dan, Like Peter, Writes lying down flat. But with his back towards us. And he has a dismal habit of groaning aloud, Writhing his whole body and digging his toes into the grass, When he cannot turn a sentence to suit him. Sarah Ray is at his left. There is seldom anything to be said of Sarah except to tell where she is. Like Tennyson's Maud, In one respect at least, Sarah is splendidly null. Well, There we sit and write in our dream books, And Uncle Roger passes by and accuses us of being up to very bad mischief. Each of us was very anxious to possess the most exciting record. But we were an honourable little crew. I do not think anything was ever written down in those dream books which had not really been dreamed. We had expected that the story girl would eclipse us all in the matter of dreams, But At least in the beginning, Her dreams were no more remarkable than those of the rest of us. In dreamland? We were all equal. Cecily, Indeed, Seemed to have the most decided talent for dramatic dreams. That meekest and mildest of girls was in the habit of dreaming truly terrible things. Almost every night. Battle, Murder or sudden death played some part in her visions. On the other hand, Dan, Who was a somewhat truculent fellow, Addicted to the perusal of lurid dime novels, Which he borrowed from the other boys in school, Dreamed dreams of such a peaceful and pastoral character. That he was quite disgusted with the resulting tame pages of his dream book. But if the story girl could not dream anything more wonderful than the rest of us, She scored when it came to the telling. To hear her tell a dream was as good, Or as bad, As dreaming it yourself. As far as writing them down was concerned. . . I believe that I, Beverly King, Carried off the palm. I was considered to possess a pretty knack of composition. But the story girl went me one better even there, Because. . . Having inherited something of her father's talent for drawing. She illustrated her dreams with sketches that certainly caught the spirit of them, Whatever might be said of their technical excellence. She had a special knack for drawing monstrosities. And I vividly recall the picture of an enormous and hideous lizard, Looking like a reptile of the pterodactyl period, Which she had dreamed of seeing crawl across the roof of the house. On another occasion, She had a frightful dream. At least it seemed frightful while she told us and described the dreadful feeling it had given her. Of being chased around the parlour by the Ottoman. Which made faces at her. She drew a picture of the grimacing Ottoman on the margin of her dream book, Which so scared Sarah Ray when she beheld it that she cried all the way home. And insisted on sleeping that night with Judy Pinot, Lest the furniture take to pursuing her also. Sarah Ray's own dreams. Never amounted to much. She was always in trouble of some sort. Couldn't get her hair braided or her shoes on the right feet. Consequently, Her dream book was very monotonous. The only thing worth mentioning in the way of dreams that Sarah Ray ever achieved was when she dreamed that she went up in a balloon. And fell out. I expected to come down with an awful thud, She said shuddering, But I lit as light as a feather. And woke right up. If you hadn't woke up, You'd have died. Said Peter with a dark significance. If you dream of falling and don't wake, You do land with a FUD. And it kills you. That's what happens to people who die in their sleep. How do you know? Asked Dan, Sceptically. Nobody who died in his sleep could ever tell it. My Aunt Jane told me so, Said Peter. I suppose that settles it, Said Felicity disagreeably. You always say something nasty when I mention my Aunt Jane, " said Peter reproachfully. What did I say that was nasty? Cried Felicity. I didn't say a single thing. Well, It sounded nasty, Said Peter, Who knew that it is the tone that makes the music. What did your Aunt Jane look like? Asked Cecily sympathetically. Was she pretty? No, Conceded Peter reluctantly. She wasn't pretty. But she looked like the woman in that picture the story girl's father sent her last week. The one with the shiny ring round her head and the baby in her lap. I've seen Aunt Jane look at me just like that woman looks at her baby. Ma never looks so. Poor Ma is too busy washing. I wish I could. Dream. Of my Aunt Jane. I never do. Dream of the dead, You'll hear of the living. Quoted Felix, Oracularly. I dreamed last night. That I threw a lighted match into that keg of gunpowder in Mr Cook's store at Markdale. Said Peter. It blew up. And everything blew up. And they fished me out of the mess. But I woke up. Before I'd time to find out if I was killed or not. One is so apt to wake up just as things get interesting, Remarked the story girl discontentedly. I dreamed last night that I had really, Truly curly hair, " said Cecily mournfully, And oh! I was so happy. It was dreadful to wake up and find it as straight as ever. Felix, That sober, Solid fellow, Dreamed constantly of flying through the air. His descriptions of his aerial flights over the treetops of Dreamland always filled us with envy. None of the rest of us could ever compass such a dream. Not even the story girl. Who might have been expected to dream of flying if anybody did. Felix. Had a knack of dreaming, Anyhow, And his Dreamberg, While suffering somewhat in comparison of literary style, Was about the best of the lot when it came to subject matter. Cecily's might be more dramatic, But Felix's was more amusing. The dream which we all counted his masterpiece? Was the one in which a menagerie had camped in the orchard and the rhinoceros chased Aunt Janet around and around the pulpit stone, But turned into an inoffensive pig. When it was on the point of catching her. Felix had a sick spell soon after we began our dream books and Aunt Janet essayed to cure him by administering a dose of liver pills. Which Elder Fruin had assured her were a cure-all for every disease the flesh is heir to. But Felix flatly refused to take liver pills. Mexican tea he would drink, But liver pills he would not take. In spite of his own suffering, And Aunt Janet's commands and entreaties. I could not understand his antipathy to the insignificant little white pellets. Which was so easy to swallow. But he explained the matter to us in the orchard when he had recovered his usual health and spirits. I was afraid to take the liver pills. For fear they'd prevent me from dreaming. He said. Don't you remember old Miss Baxter in Toronto, Bev? And how she told Mrs. McLaren, That she was subjected terrible dreams and finally she took two liver pills and never had any more dreams after that. I'd rather have died than risk it concluded Felix solemnly. I had an exciting dream last night for once, Said Dan triumphantly. I dreamt old Peg Bowen chased me. I thought I was up to her house and she took after me. You bet I scooted, And she caught me. Yes sir, I felt her skinny hand reach out and clutch my shoulder. I let out a screech. And woke up. I should think you did, Screech, Said Felicity. We heard you. Clean over into our room. I hate to dream of being chased because I can never run, Said Sarah Ray with a shiver. I just stand rooted to the ground and see it coming and can't stir. It don't sound much written out, But it's awful to go through. I'm sure I hope I'll never dream Peg Bowen chases me. I'll die if I do. I wonder what Peg Bowen would really do to a fellow. If she caught him. Speculated Dan. Peg Bowen doesn't need to catch you to do things to you, Said Peter ominously. She can put ill luck on you just by looking at you. And she will, If you offend her. I don't believe that, Said the story girl, Airily. Don't you? All right then. Last summer she called at Lem Ills in Markdale and he told her to clear out or he'd set the dogs on her. Peg cleared out and she went across his pasture muttering to herself and throwing her arms round and next day His very best cow took sick and died. How do you account for that? It might have happened anyhow, Said the story girl, Somewhat less assuredly though. It might. But I'd just as soon peg Bowen didn't look at my cows, " said Peter. As if you had any cows, Giggled Felicity. I'm going to have cows someday, Said Peter, Flushing. I don't mean to be a ired boy all my life. I'll have a farm of my own and cows and everything. You'll see if I won't. I dreamed last night that we opened the blue chest. Said the story go. And all the things were there. The blue China candlestick. Only it was brass in the dream. And the fruit basket with the apple on it. And the wedding dress. And the embroidered petticoat. And we were laughing. And trying the things on. Having such fun. Rachel Ward herself. Came and looked at us. So? Sad and reproachful. And we all felt ashamed. And I began to cry. And woke up crying. I dreamed last night that Felix was Finn, Said Peter, Laughing. He did look so queer. His clothes just hung loose and he was going round trying to hold them on. Everybody thought this was funny. Except Felix. He would not speak to Peter for two days because of it. Felicity also got into trouble because of her dreams. One night she woke up having just had a very exciting dream. But she went to sleep again and in the morning she could not remember the dream at all. Felicity determined she would never let another dream get away from her in such a fashion. And the next time she awakened in the night, Having dreamed that she was dead and buried, She promptly arose, Lighted a candle and proceeded to write the dream down, Then and there. While so employed, She contrived to upset the candle and set fire to her nightgown, A brand new one, Trimmed with any quantity of crocheted lace, A huge hole was burned in it. And when Aunt Janet discovered it, She lifted up her voice with no uncertain sound. Felicity had never received a sharper scolding. But she took it very philosophically. She was used to her mother's bitter tongue, And she was not unduly sensitive. Anyhow, I saved my dream, She said placidly. And that, Of course, Was all that really mattered. Grown people were so strangely oblivious to the truly important things of life. Material for new garments. Of night or day could be bought in any shop for a trifling sum and made up out of hand. But if a dream escape you? In what marketplace the wide world over Can you hope to regain it? What coin? Of earthly minting will ever buy back for you that lost and lovely vision. Chapter 23 Such stuff as dreams are made on. 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 sat 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 lady-like 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. . . 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 15th, An entry to this effect. Last night I dreamt a dream It wasn't a polite dream So I won't write 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 shriveled 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. All at once. The Story Girl and Peter. Began to forge ahead in the matter of dreaming. Their dreams suddenly became so lurid and dreadful and picturesque that it was hard for the rest of us to believe that they were not painting the lily rather freely in their accounts of them. But the story girl was the soul of honor. And Peter, Early in life, Had had his feet set in the path of truthfulness by his Aunt Jane. And had never been known to stray from it. When they assured us, Solemnly, That their dreams all happened exactly as they described them. We were compelled to believe them. But there was something up. We felt sure of that. Peter and the Story Girl certainly had a secret between them, Which they kept for a whole fortnight. There was no finding it out from the story girl. She had a knack of keeping secrets anyhow. And moreover. . . All that fortnight, She was. . . Strangely cranky and petulant, And we found it was not wise to tease her. She was not well. So Aunt Olivia told Aunt Janet. I don't know what is the matter with the child, Said the former anxiously. She hasn't seemed like herself the past two weeks. She complains of headache. And she has no appetite. And she is a dreadful color. I'll have to see a doctor about her if she doesn't get better soon. Give her a good dose of Mexican tea. Try that first, " said Aunt Janet. I've saved many a doctor's bill in my family by using Mexican tea. The Mexican tea was duly administered, But produced no improvement in the condition of the story girl, Who however, Went on dreaming after a fashion which soon made her dream book a veritable curiosity of literature. If we can't soon find out what makes Peter and the Story Girl dream like that. Rest of us might as well give up trying to write dream books, " said Felix discontentedly. Finally! We did find out. Felicity wormed the secret out of Peter by the employment of Delilah Wiles, Such as have been the undoing of many a miserable male creature since Samson's day. She first threatened that she would never speak to him again if he didn't tell her, And then she promised him that if he did, She would let him walk beside her, To and from Sunday school, All the rest of the summer, And carry her books for her. Peter was not proof against this double attack. He yielded and told the secret. I expected the story girl would overwhelm him with scorn and indignation, But she took it very coolly. I knew Felicity would get it out of him sometime. She said. I think he has done well. To hold out this long. Peter and the Story Girl, So it appeared, Had wooed wild dreams to their pillows. By the simple device of eating rich, Indigestible things before they went to bed. Aunt Olivia knew nothing about it, Of course. She permitted them only a plain, Wholesome lunch at bedtime. But during the day, The story girl would smuggle upstairs various tidbits from the pantry. Putting half in Peter's room and half in her own. And the result was these visions, Which had been our despair. Last night, I ate a piece of mince pie, She said, And a lot of pickles. And two grape jelly tarts. But. . . I guess I overdid it because I got real sick. And couldn't sleep at all. Of course I didn't have any dreams. I should have stopped with the pie and pickles and left the tarts alone. Peter did, And he had an elegant dream that Peg Bowen caught him and put him on to boil alive in that big black pot that hangs outside her door. He woke up before the water got hot though. Well, Miss Felicity, You're pretty smart. But how will you like to walk to Sunday school with a boy who wears patched trousers? I won't have to, Said Felicity triumphantly. Peter is having a new suit made. It's to be ready by Saturday. I knew that before I promised. Having discovered how to produce exciting dreams, We all promptly followed the example of Peter and the Story Girl. There is no chance for me to have any horrid dreams, Lamented Sarah Ray, Because Ma won't let me having anything at all to eat before I go to bed. I don't think it's fair. Can't you hide something away through the day as we do? Asked Felicity. No. Sarah shook her fawn-coloured head mournfully. Ma always keeps the pantry locked, For fear Judy Pineau will treat her friends. For a week we ate unlawful lunches and dreamed dreams after our own hearts. And, I regret to say, Bickered and squabbled incessantly throughout the daytime, For our digestions went out of order. And our tempers followed suit. Even the story girl and I had a fight. Something that had never happened before. Peter was the only one who kept his normal poise. Nothing could upset that boy's stomach. One night, Cecily came into the pantry with a large cucumber. And proceeded to devour the greater part of it. The grown-ups were away that evening, Attending a lecture at Markdale, So we ate our snacks openly, Without any recourse to ways that were dark. I remember I sucked that night off a solid hunk of fat pork, Topped off with a slab of cold plum pudding. I thought you didn't like cucumber, Cecily, " Dan remarked. Neither I do, Said Cecily with a grimace. But Peter says they're splendid for dreaming. He ate one. That night he had the dream about being caught by cannibals. I'd eat three cucumbers. If I could have a dream like that. . . Cecily finished her cucumber and then drank a glass of milk, Just as we heard the wheels of Uncle Alex's buggy rambling over the bridge in the hollow. Felicity quickly restored pork and pudding to their own places. And by the time Aunt Janet came in, We were all in our respective beds. Soon the house was dark and silent. I was just dropping into an uneasy slumber. When I heard a commotion in the girls' room across the hall. Their door opened and through our own open door. I saw Felicity's white-clad figure flit down the stairs to Aunt Janet's room. From the room she had left came moans and cries. Cecily's sick, Said Dan, Springing out of bed. That cucumber must have disagreed with her. In a few minutes, The whole house was astir. Cecily was sick. Very, Very sick. There was no doubt of that. She was even worse than Dan had been when he had eaten the bad berries. Uncle Alec, Tired as he was from his hard day's work and evening outing, Was dispatched for the doctor. Aunt Janet and Felicity administered all the homely remedies they could think of, But to no effect. Felicity told Aunt Janet of the cucumber. But Aunt Janet did not think the cucumber alone could be responsible for Cecily's alarming condition. Cucumbers are indigestible. I never knew of them making anyone as sick as this, " she said anxiously. What made the child eat a cucumber before going to bed? I didn't think she liked them. It was that wretched Peter, Sobbed Felicity indignantly. He told her it would make her dream something extra. What on earth? Did she want to dream for? Demanded Aunt Janet in bewilderment. Oh, To have something worthwhile to write in her dream book, Ma. We all have dream books, You know. Everyone wants their own to be the most exciting and we've been eating rich things to make us dream. It does, But If Cecily. . . Oh, I'll never forgive myself. Said Felicity incoherently, Letting all kinds of cats out of the bag in her excitement and alarm. Well, I wonder what on earth you young ones will do next, " said Aunt Janet in the helpless tone of a woman who gives it up. Cecily was no better when the doctor came. Like Aunt Janet, He declared that cucumbers alone would not have made her so ill. But when he found out that she had drunk a glass of milk also? The mystery was solved. Why? Milk and cucumbers together make a rank poison, " he said. No wonder the child is sick. They're there now, Seeing the alarmed faces around him. Don't be frightened. As old Mrs Fraser says, It's no deadly. It won't kill her. But she'll probably be a pretty miserable girl for two or three days. She was. And we were all miserable in company. Aunt Janet investigated the whole affair and the matter of our dream books was aired in Family Conclave. I do not know which hurt our feelings most. The scolding we got from Aunt Janet, Or the ridicule which the other grown-ups, Especially Uncle Roger, Showered on us. Peter received an extra setting down, Which he considered rank injustice. I didn't tell Cecily to drink the milk. And the cucumber alone wouldn't have hurt her. He grumbled. Cecily was able to be out with us again that day, So Peter felt that he might venture on a grumble. Sides, She coaxed me to tell her what would be good for dreams. I just told her as a favour. And now your Aunt Janet blames me for the old trouble. And Aunt Janet says, We are never to have anything to eat before we go to bed after this, Except plain bread and milk, Said Felix sadly. They'd like to stop us from dreaming altogether if they could, " said the Story Girl wrathfully. Well, Anyway. They can't prevent us from growing up, Consoled Dan. We needn't worry about the bread and milk rule, " added Felicity. Ma made a rule like that once before, And kept it for a week. And then we just slipped back to the old way. That will be what will happen this time too. But of course we won't be able to get any more rich things for supper and our dreams will be pretty flat after this. Well. . . Let's go down to the pulpit stone and I'll tell you a story I know. Said the story girl. We went and straight away drank of the waters of forgetfulness. In a brief space, We were laughing right merrily, No longer remembering our wrongs at the hands of those cruel grown-ups. Our laughter echoed back from the barns and the spruce grove, As if elfin denizens of upper air were sharing in our mirth. Presently, Also the laughter of the grown-ups mingled with ours. Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger. Aunt Janet and Uncle Alex. We came strolling through the orchard and joined our circle, As they sometimes did when the toil of the day was over, And the magic time, Twixt light and dark, Brought truce of care and labour. T'was then we liked our grown-ups best, For then they seemed half children again. Uncle Roger and Uncle Alec lulled in the grass like boys. Aunt Olivia, Looking more like a pansy than ever, In the prettiest dress of pale purple print, With a knot of yellow ribbon at her throat, Sat with her arm about Cecily and smiled on us all. And Aunt Janet's motherly face lost its everyday look of anxious care. The story girl was in great fettle that night. Never had her tales sparkled with such wit and archness. Sarah Stanley, Said Aunt Olivia, Shaking her finger at her after a side-splitting yarn. If you don't watch out, You'll be famous someday. These funny stories are all right, Said Uncle Roger, But for real enjoyment, Give me something with a creep in it. Sarah, Tell us that story of the serpent woman I heard you tell one day last summer. The Story Girl began it. Glibly. But before she had gone far with it, I, Who was sitting beside her, Felt an unaccountable repulsion creeping over me. For the first time since I had known her, I wanted to draw away from the story girl. Looking around on the faces of the group, I saw that they all shared my feeling. Cecily had put her hands over her eyes. Peter was staring at the story girl with a fascinated horror-stricken gaze. Aunt Olivia was pale and troubled. All looked as if they were held prisoners. In the bonds of a fearsome spell. Which they would gladly break, But. . . Could not. It was not our story girl who sat there telling that weird tale in a sibilant, Curdling voice. She had put on a new personality, Like a garment. And that personality was a venomous. Evil, Loathly thing. I would rather have died than have touched the slim brown wrist on which she supported herself. The light in her narrowed orbs was the cold, Merciless gleam of the serpent's eye. I felt frightened of this unholy creature who had suddenly come in our dear Story Girl's place. When the tale ended, There was a brief silence. Then Aunt Janet said severely, But with a sigh of relief, Little girls shouldn't tell such horrible stories. This truly Aunt Janetian remark broke the spell. The grown-ups laughed rather shakily and the story girl, Our own dear story girl once more and no serpent woman, Said protestingly, Well, Uncle Roger asked me to tell it. I don't like telling such stories either. They make me feel. Dreadful. Do you know, For just a little while, I felt exactly like a snake. You looked like one, Said Uncle Roger. How on earth do you do it? I. . . Can't explain how I do it, Said the story girl perplexedly. It just does itself. Genius can never explain how it does it. It would not be genius if it could. And the story girl had genius. As we left the orchard, I walked along behind Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia. That was an uncanny exhibition for a girl of 14, You know, Roger, Said Aunt Olivia musingly. What is in store for that child? Fame, Said Uncle Roger. If she ever has a chance, That is. And I suppose her father will see to that. At least I hope he will. You and I, Olivia, Never had our chance. I hope Sarah will have hers. This was my first inkling of what I was to understand more fully. In later years. Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia had both cherished certain dreams and ambitions in youth, But circumstances had denied them their chance, And those dreams had never been fulfilled. Someday, Olivia, Went on Uncle Roger, You and I may find ourselves the aunt and uncle of the foremost actress of her day. If a girl of 14 can make a couple of practical farmers and a pair of matter-of-fact housewives half-believe for 10 minutes that she really is a snake, What won't she be able to do when she is 30? Here you, Added Uncle Roger perceiving me, Cut along, Get off to your bed, And mind you don't eat cucumbers and milk before you go. Chapter 24 The Bewitchment of Pat We were all in the doleful dumps. At least, All we young fry were. And even the grown-ups were sorry, And condescended to take an interest in our troubles. Pat, Our own dear, Frolicsome Paddy, Was sick again. Very, Very sick. On Friday, He moped and refused his saucer of new milk at milking time. The next morning, He stretched himself down on the platform by Uncle Roger's back door, Laid his head on his black paws, And refused to take any notice of anything or anybody. In vain we stroked and entreated and brought him tidbits. Only when the story-girl caressed him did he give one plaintive little mew, As if to ask piteously why she could not do something for him. At that, Cecily and Felicity and Sarah Ray all began crying. And we boys felt choky. Indeed, I caught Peter behind Aunt Olivia's dairy later in the day, And if ever a boy had been crying, I vow that boy was Peter. Nor did he deny it when I taxed him with it, But he would not give in that he was crying about Paddy. Nonsense. What were you crying for then? I said. I'm crying because because my aunt Jane is dead, " said Peter defiantly. But your Aunt Jane died two years ago. I said skeptically. Well. . . Ain't that all the more reason for crying? Retorted Peter. I've had to do without her for two years. And that's worse than if it had just been a few days. I believe you were crying because Pat is so sick, I said firmly. As if I'd cry about a cat, Scoffed Peter, And he marched off whistling. Of course, We had tried the lard and powder treatment again, Smearing Pat's paws and sides liberally, But to our dismay, Pat made no effort to lick it off. I tell you, He's a mighty sick cat, Said Peter darkly, When a cat don't care what he looks like. He's pretty far gone. If we only knew what was the matter with him, We might do something, Sobbed the story girl, Stroking her poor pet's unresponsive head. I could tell ya. What's the matter with him? But you'd only laugh at me, Said Peter. We all looked at him. Peter Craig. What do you mean? Asked Felicity. Exactly what I say. Then. If you know what is the matter with Paddy, Tell us. Commanded the story girl, Standing up. She said it quietly, But Peter obeyed. I think he would have obeyed if she, In that tone and with those eyes, Had ordered him to cast himself into the depths of the sea. I know I should. A's. Bewitched. That's what's the matter with him said Peter half defiantly half shame-facedly. Bewitched. Nonsense. There now. What did I tell you? Complained Peter. The story girl looked at Peter. At the rest of us, And then at Paul, Pat. How could he be bewitched? She asked irresolutely. And who could bewitch him. I don't know. Ow. He was bewitched, Said Peter. I'd have to be a witch myself to know that. But Peg Bowen bewitched him. Nonsense, Said the story girl again. All right, Said Peter. You don't have to believe me. If Peg Bowen could bewitch anything, And I don't believe she could, Why should she bewitch Pat? Asked the story girl. Everybody here and at Uncle Alex is always kind to her. I'll tell you why. Said Peter. Thursday afternoon. When you fellows were all in school. Peg Bowen came here. Your Aunt Olivia gave her a lunch. Good one. You may laugh at the notion of Peg being a witch, But I notice your folks are always awful good to her when she comes, And awful careful never to offend her. Aunt Olivia would be good to any poor creature, And so would Mother. Said Felicity. And of course, Nobody wants to offend Peg, Because. . . She is spiteful and once set fire to a man's barn in Markdale when he offended her. But she isn't a witch. That's ridiculous. Alright. But wait till I tell ya. When Peg Bowen was leaving. Pat stretched out on the steps. She tramped on his tail. You know Pat doesn't like to have his tail meddled with. He slewed himself round and clawed a bare foot. If you'd just seen the look she gave him, You'd know whether she was a witch or not. And she went off down the lane, Muttering and throwing her hands round, Just like she did in Lemill's cow pasture. She put a spell on Pat. That's what she did. E was sick the next morning. We looked at each other. In miserable, Perplexed silence. We were only children. And we believed that there had been such things as witches once upon a time. And Peg Bowen was an eerie creature. If that's so. Though I can't believe it. We can't do anything, Said the story girl drearily. Pat must die. Cecily began to weep afresh. I'd do anything to save Pat's life, She said. I'd believe anything. There's nothing we can do, Said Felicity, Impatiently. Suppose, Sobbed Cecily, We might go to Peg Bowen and ask her. Ask her to forgive Pat and take the spell off him? She might. If we apologized, Real humble. At first, We were appalled by the suggestion. We didn't believe that Peg Bowen was a witch, But to go to her, To seek her out in that mysterious woodland retreat of hers, Which was invested with all the terrors of the unknown. And that this suggestion should come from timid Cecily of all people. But then there was poor Pat. Would it do any good? Said the story girl desperately. Even if she did make Pat sick, I suppose it would only make her cross her if we went and accused her of bewitching him. Besides, She didn't do anything of the sort. But there was some uncertainty in the story girl's voice. It wouldn't do any harm to try, " said Cecily. If she didn't make him sick, It won't matter if she is cross. It won't matter to Pat, But it might to the one who goes to her, " said Felicity. She isn't a witch, But she's a spiteful old woman. And goodness knows what she'd do to us. What if she caught us? I'm scared of Peg Bowen and I don't care who knows it. Ever since, I can mind Ma's been saying, If you're not good, Peg Bowen will catch you. If I thought She really made Pat sick. And could make him better. I'd try to pacify her somehow, Said the story girl decidedly. I'm frightened of her too. Just look at poor darling Paddy. We looked at Paddy. Who continued to stare fixedly before him with unwinking eyes. Uncle Roger came out and looked at him also with what seemed to us positively brutal unconcern. I'm afraid it's all up with Pat, He said. Uncle Roger, Said Cecily imploringly, Peter says Peg Bowen has bewitched Pat. For scratching her. Do you think it can be so? What did Pat scratch Peg? Asked Uncle Roger with a horror-stricken face. Dear May. Dear May. That mystery is solved. Poor Pat. Uncle Roger nodded his head, As if resigning himself and Pat to the worst. Really think Peg Bowen is a witch, Uncle Roger? Demanded the story go incredulously. Do I think? Peg Bowen is a witch. My dear Sarah. What do you think of a woman who can turn herself into a black cat? Whenever she likes. Is she a witch? Or is she not? I'll leave it to you. Can pay? Bowen turn herself into a black cat? " asked Felix, Staring. It's my belief that that is the least of Peg Bowen's accomplishments. Answered Uncle Roger. It's the easiest thing in the world for a witch to turn herself into any animal you choose to mention. Yes, Pat is bewitched. No doubt of that. Not the least in the world. What are you telling those children such stuff for? Asked Aunt Olivia, Passing on her way to the well. It's an irresistible temptation, Answered Uncle Roger, Strolling over to carry her pail. You can see. Your uncle Roger believes Peg is a witch, Said Peter. And you can see Aunt Olivia doesn't, I said. And I don't either. See here. Said the story girl, Resolutely. I don't believe it. But there may be something in it. Suppose there is. The question is, What can we do? I'll tell you what I'd do, Said Peter. I'd take a present for Peg and ask her to make Pat well. I wouldn't let on I thought she'd made him sick. Then she couldn't be offended. And maybe she'd take the spell off. I think we'd better all give her something. Said Felicity. I'm willing to do that, But Who's going to take the presents to her? We must all go together, Said the story girl. I won't. Cried Sarah Ray in terror. I wouldn't go near Peg Bowen's house. For the world. No matter who was with me. I've thought of a plan. Said the story go. Let's all give her something, As Felicity says, And let us all go up to her place this evening. And if we see her outside, We'll just go quietly and set the things down before her with the letter and say nothing, But come respectfully away. If she'll let us, " said Dan significantly. Can Peg read a letter? I asked. Oh yes, Aunt Olivia says she is a good scholar. She went to school and was a smart girl. Until she became crazy. We'll write it very plain. What if we don't see her? Asked Felicity. We'll put the things on her doorstep then and leave them. She may be miles away over the country by this time, Sighed Cecily, And never find them until it's too late for Pat. But. . . It's the only thing to do. What can we give her? We mustn't offer her any money, " said the story girl. She's very indignant when anyone does that. She says she isn't a beggar. But she'll take anything else. I shall give her my string of blue beads. She's fond of finery. I'll give her that sponge cake I made this morning, " said Felicity. I guess she doesn't get sponge cake very often. I've nothing but the rheumatism ring I got as a premium for selling needles last winter, Said Peter. I'll give her that. Even if she hasn't got rheumatism, It's a real handsome ring. He looks like solid gold. I'll give her a roll of peppermint candy, " said Felix. I'll give her one of those little jars of cherry preserve I made, " said Cecily. Aye. Won't go near her quavered sarah ray but i want to do something for Pat. I'll send that piece of apple leaf lace I knit last week. I decided to give the redoubtable peg some apples from my birthday tree. And Dan declared he would give her a plug of tobacco. Oh. Won't she be insulted? Exclaimed Felix, Rather horrified. Nah, Grinned Dan. Peg chews tobacco like a man. She'd rather have it than your rubbishy peppermints, I can tell you. I'll run down to old Mrs Sampson's and get a plug. Now. We must write the letter and take it and the presents to her right away before it gets dark, Said the story girl. We adjourned to the granary to indict the important document. Which the story goal was to compose. How shall I begin it? She asked in perplexity. It would never do to say. Dear Peg. And Dear Miss Bowen. Sounds too ridiculous. Besides, Nobody knows whether she is Miss Bowen or not, " said Felicity. She went to Boston when she grew up, And some say she was married there and her husband deserted her, And that's why she went crazy. If she's married, She won't like being called Miss. Well. . . How am I to address her? Asked the story girl in despair. Peter again came to the rescue with a practical suggestion. Begin it. Respected madam, He said. Ma, As a letter, A school trustee, Once writ to my Aunt Jane, And that's how it begins. Respected madam wrote the story girl. We want to ask a very great favour of you and we hope you will kindly grant it if you can. Our favourite cat, Paddy, Is very sick. And we are afraid. He is going to die. Do you think you could cure him? And will you please try? We are all so fond of him and he is such a good cat and has no bad habits. Of course, If any of us tramps on his tail, He will scratch us, But You know, A cat can't bear to have his tail trapped on. It's a very tender part of him. And it's his only way of preventing it. And he doesn't mean any harm. If you can cure Paddy for us, We will always be very, Very grateful to you. The accompanying small offerings are a testimonial of our respect and gratitude, And we entreat you to honour us by accepting them. Very respectfully, Yours, Sarah Stanley. I tell ya, That last sentence has a fine sound, " said Peter admiringly. I didn't make that up, Admitted the story girl honestly. I read it somewhere and remembered it. I think it's too fine, Criticised Felicity. Peg Bowen won't know the meaning of such big words. But it was decided to leave them in and we all signed the letter. Then we got our testimonials and started on our reluctant journey to the domains of the witch. Sarah Ray would not go, Of course, But she volunteered to stay with Pat while we were away. We did not think it necessary to inform the grown-ups of our errand, Or its nature. Grown-ups had such peculiar views. They might forbid our going at all. And they would certainly laugh at us. Peg Bowen's house was nearly a mile away, Even by the shortcut past the swamp and up the wooded hill. We went down through the brook field and over the little plank bridge in the hollow, Half lost in its surrounding sea of farewell summers. When we reached the green gloom of the woods beyond. We began to feel frightened. But nobody would have met it. We walked very closely together and we did not talk. When you are near the retreat of witches and folk of that ilk, The less you say the better, For their feelings are so notoriously touchy. Of course, Peg wasn't a witch, But. . . It was best to be on the safe side. Finally, We came to the lane, Which led directly to her abode. We were all very pale now, And our hearts were beating. The red September sun hung low between the tall spruces to the west. It did not look to me just right for a son. In fact, Everything looked uncanny. I wished our errand were well over. A sudden bend in the lane brought us out to the little clearing where Peg's house was. Before we were half ready to see it. In spite of my fear. I looked at it with some curiosity. It was a small, Shaky building with a sagging roof. Set amid a perfect jungle of weeds. To our eyes, The odd thing about it was that there was no entrance on the ground floor. As there should be in any respectable house. The only door was in the upper story. And was reached by a flight of rickety steps. There was no sign of life about the place except, Sight of ill omen, A large black cat sitting on the topmost step. We thought of Uncle Roger's gruesome hints. Could that black cat be Peg? Nonsense. Still. It didn't look like an ordinary cat. It was so large. And had such green, Malicious eyes. Plainly, There was something out of the common about the beastie. In a tense, Breathless silence, The story girl placed our parcels on the lowest step and laid her letter on the top of the pile. Her brown fingers trembled and her face was very pale. Suddenly, The door above us opened, And Peg Bowen herself appeared on the threshold. She was a tall, Sinewy old woman, Wearing a short, Ragged, Druggit skirt which reached scantily below her knees, A scarlet print blouse and a man's hat. Her feet, Arms and neck were bare, And she had a battered old clay pipe in her mouth. Her brown face was seamed with a hundred wrinkles, And her tangled, Grizzled hair fell unkemptly over her shoulders. She. . . Was scowling. And her flashing black eyes held no friendly light. We had borne up bravely enough, Hitherto. In spite of our inward, Unconfessed quakings. But now, Our strained nerves gave way and sheer panic seized us. Peter? Gave a little yelp of pure terror. We turned and fled across the clearing and into the woods. Down the long hill we tore like mad hunted creatures, Firmly convinced that Peg Bowen was after us. WILD! Was that scamper. As nightmare-like as any recorded in our dream books. The story girl was in front of me, And I can recall the tremendous leaps she made over fallen logs and little spruce bushes, With her long brown curls streaming out behind her from their scarlet fillet. Cecily, Behind me, Kept gasping out the contradictory sentences, Wait for me! And. . . Oh! Bev! Hurry! Hurry! More by blind instinct than anything else, We kept together and found our way out of the woods. Presently, We were in the field beyond the brook. Over us was a dainty sky of shell pink. Placid cows were pasturing around us. The farewell summers nodded to us in the friendly breezes. We halted. With a glad realisation that we were back in our own haunts and that Peg Bowen had not caught us. Oh, Wasn't that an awful experience? Gasped Cecily, Shuddering. I wouldn't go through it again. I couldn't. Not even for Pat. It come on, Othello, So sudden't. Said Peter shamefacedly. I think I could have stood my ground if I'd known she was going to come out. But when she popped out like that. . . For I was done for. We shouldn't have run, Said Felicity gloomily. It showed we were afraid of her. And that always makes her awful cross. She won't do a thing for Pat now. I don't believe she could do anything anyway, Said the story girl. I think we've just been a lot of geese. We were all, Except Peter, More or less inclined to agree with her. And the conviction of our folly deepened when we reached the granary and found that Pat, Watched over by the faithful Sarah Ray, Was no better. The story girl announced that she would take him into the kitchen and sit up all night with him. He shan't die alone, Anyway, " she said, Miserably, Gathering his limp body up in her arms. We did not think Aunt Olivia would give her permission to stay up. But Aunt Olivia did. Aunt Olivia really was a duck. We wanted to stay with her also, But Aunt Janet wouldn't hear of such a thing. She ordered us off to bed, Saying that it was positively sinful in us to be so worked up over a cat. Five heartbroken children, Who knew that there are many worse friends than dumb furry folk, Climbed Uncle Alex's stairs to bed that night. There's nothing we can do now. Except pray God to make Pat better, " said Cecily. I must candidly say that her tone savoured strongly of a last resort. But this was owing more to early training than to any lack of faith on Cecily's part. She knew, And we knew, That prayer was a solemn right, Not to be lightly held, Nor degraded to common uses. Felicity voiced this conviction when she said, I don't believe it would be right to pray about a cat. I'd like to know why not, " retorted Cecily. God made Paddy just as much as he made you, Felicity King. Though perhaps he didn't go to so much trouble. And I'm sure he's abler to help him than Peg Bowen. Anyhow, I'm going to pray for Pat with all my might and mane, And I'd like to see you try to stop me. Of course, I won't mix it up with more important things, I'll just tack it on after I've finished asking the blessings, But before I say amen. More petitions than Cecily's were offered up that night on behalf of Paddy. I distinctly heard Felix, Who always said his prayers in a loud whisper, Owing to some lasting conviction of early life that God could not hear him if he did not pray audibly, Mutter pleadingly after the important part of his devotions was over. Oh God, Please make Pat better by the morning. Please do. And I, Even in these late years of irreverence for the dreams of youth, Am not in the least ashamed to confess that when I knelt down to say my boyish prayer, I thought of our little furry comrade in his extremity and prayed as reverently as I knew how for his healing. Then I went to sleep, Comforted by the simple hope that the Great Father would, After important things were all attended to, Remember poor me. As soon as we were up the next morning, We rushed off to Uncle Roger's, But we met Peter and the Story Girl in the lane, And their faces were as the faces of those who bring glad tidings upon the mountains. Pats, Better, Cried the Story Girl, Blithe, Triumphant. Last night, Just At twelve, He began to lick his paws. Then he licked himself all over. And went to sleep too on the sofa. When I woke, Pat was washing his face and he has taken a whole saucer full of milk. Isn't it splendid? You see? Peg Bowen. Did put a spell on him. Said Peter. And then she took it off. I guess Cecily's prayer had more to do with Pat's getting better than Peg Bowen, Said Felicity. She prayed for Pat over and over again. That is why he's better. Alright. Said Peter. But I'd advise Pat not to scratch Peg Bowen again. That's all. I wish I knew whether it was the praying or Peg Bowen that cured Pat, Said Felix in perplexity. I don't believe it was either of them, Said Dan. Pat just got sick and got better again of his own accord. I'm going to believe that it was the praying, " said Cecily decidedly. It's so much nicer to believe that God cured Pat than that Peg Bowen did. But you oughtn't to believe a thing just cos it would Be more comfortable. Objected Peter. Mind you. I ain't saying God couldn't cure Pat. But nothing and nobody can ever make me believe that Peg Bowen wasn't at the bottom of it all. Thus, Faith, Superstition, And incredulity strove together amongst us, As in all history. Chapter 25, A Cup of Failure. One warm Sunday evening in the moon of Goldenrod. We all, Grown-ups and children, Were sitting in the orchard by the pulpit stone, Singing sweet old gospel hymns. We could all sing, More or less, Except poor Sarah Ray, Who had once despairingly confided to me that She didn't know what she'd ever do when she went to heaven because she couldn't sing a note. That whole scene comes out clearly for me in memory. The arc of primrose sky over the trees behind the old house, The fruit-laden boughs of the orchard, The bank of goldenrod, Like a wave of sunshine behind the pulpit stone. The nameless colour seen on a fir wood in a ruddy sunset. I can see Uncle Alex's tired, Brilliant blue eyes, Aunt Janet's wholesome, Matronly face, Uncle Roger's sweeping blonde beard and red cheeks, And Aunt Olivia's full-blown beauty. Two voices ring out for me above all others in the music that echoes through the halls of recollection. Cecily's sweet and silvery, And Uncle Alec's fine tenor. If you're a king, You sing, Was a Carlisle proverb in those days. Aunt Julia had been the flower of the flock in that respect. And had become a noted concert singer. The World Head. Never heard of the rest. Their music echoed only along the hidden ways of life, And served but to lighten the cares of the trivial, Round and common task. That evening, After they tired of singing, Our grown-ups began talking of their youthful days and doings. This was always a keen delight to us small fry. We listened avidly to the tales of our uncles and aunts in the days when they too, Hard fact to realise, Had been children. Good and proper, As they were now, Once, So it seemed, They had gotten into mischief. And even had their quarrels and disagreements. On this particular evening, Uncle Roger told many stories of Uncle Edward. And one in which the said Edward had preached sermons at the mature age of 10 from the pulpit stone fired, As the sequel will show, The story girl's imagination. Can't I just see him at it now? " said Uncle Roger, Leaning over that old boulder, His cheeks red and his eyes burning with excitement. Banging the top of it, As he'd seen the ministers do in church. It wasn't cushioned, However. And he always bruised his hands in his self-forgetful earnestness. We thought him a regular wonder. We love to hear him preach. But we didn't like to hear him pray because He always insisted on praying for each of us by name. And it made us feel wretchedly uncomfortable somehow. Do you remember how furious Julia was because Edward prayed one day that she might be preserved from vanity and conceit over her singing? I should think I do, Laughed Uncle Alec. She was sitting right there, Where Cecily is now. And she got up at once and marched right out of the orchard. But, At the gate, She turned to call back, Indignantly, I guess you'd better wait till you've prayed the conceit out of yourself before you begin on me, Ned King. I never heard such stuck-up sermons as you preach. Ned went on praying and never let on he heard her. But at the end of his prayer, He wound up with, Oh God, I pray you to keep an eye on us all. But I pray you to pay particular attention to my sister Julia, For I think she needs it even more than the rest of us. World without end. Amen. Our uncles roared with laughter over the recollection. We all laughed indeed. Especially over another tale in which Uncle Edward, Leaning too far over the pulpit in his earnestness, Lost his balance altogether and tumbled ingloriously into the grass below. He lit on a big scotch thistle, Said Uncle Roger, Chuckling. And besides that, He skinned his forehead on a stone. But he was determined to finish his sermon, And finish it he did. He climbed back into the pulpit, Tears rolling over his cheeks and preached for 10 minutes longer with sobs in his voice and drops of blood on his forehead. He was a plucky little beggar. No wonder he succeeded in life. And his sermons and prayers were always just about as outspoken as those Julia objected to, Said Uncle Alec. Well, We're all getting on in life and Edward is grey. But when I think of him. . . I always see him, A little, Rosy, Curly-headed chap, Laying down the law to us from the pulpit stone. It seems like the other day that we were all here together just as these children are. And now, We are scattered everywhere. Julia in California. Edward in Halifax. Allen in South America. Felix and Felicity and Stephen. Gone to the land that's very far off. There was a little space of silence. And then Uncle Alec began. In a low, Impressive voice. To repeat the wonderful verses of the 90th psalm, Verses which were thenceforth bound up for us with the beauty of that night, And the memories of our kindred. Very reverently, We all listened to the majestic words. Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth. Or ever thou hast formed the earth and the world even from everlasting to everlasting thou art God for a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past. And as a watch in the night. For all our days are passed away in thy wrath. We spend our years as a tale that is told. The days of our years. Are 3 score and 10. And if by reason of strength they be four score years, Yet is their strength labour and sorrow. For it is soon cut off. And we fly away. Teach us to number our days. That we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. O, Satisfy us early with thy mercy, That we may rejoice and be glad all our days. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us. And establish thou the work of our hands upon us. Yea, The work of our hands, Establish thou it. The dusk crept into the orchard like a dim, Bewitching personality. You could see her, Feel her, Hear her. She tiptoed softly from tree to tree, Ever drawing nearer. Presently, Her filmy wings hovered over us and through them gleamed the early stars of the autumn night. The grown-ups rose reluctantly and strolled away, But we children lingered for a moment to talk over an idea the Story Girl broached. A good idea, We thought enthusiastically, And one that promised to add considerable spice to life. We were on the lookout for some new amusement. Dream Books had begun to pal. We no longer wrote in them very regularly and our dreams were not what they used to be before the mischance of the cucumber. So the story girl's suggestion came pat to the psychological moment. I've thought of a splendid plan, She said. It just flashed into my mind when the uncles were talking about Uncle Edward. And the beauty of it is we can play it on Sundays. And, You know, There are so few things it is proper to play on Sundays. But this is a Christian game, So it will be all right. It isn't like the religious fruit basket game, Is it? Asked Cecily anxiously. We had good reason to hope that it wasn't. One desperate Sunday afternoon, When we had nothing to read and the time seemed endless, Felix had suggested that we have a game of Fruit Basket. Only instead of taking the names of fruits, We were to take the names of Bible characters. This, He argued, Would make it quite lawful and proper to play on Sunday. We. Too desirous of being convinced, Also thought so. And for a merry hour, Lazarus and Martha and Moses and Aaron and sundry other worthies of Holy Writ had a lively time of it in the King Orchard. Peter, Having a scriptural name of his own, Did not want to take another. But we would not allow this because it would give him an unfair advantage over the rest of us. It would be so much easier to call out your own name than fit your tongue to an unfamiliar one. So, Peter retaliated by choosing Nebuchadnezzar which no one could ever utter three times before Peter shrieked it out once. In the midst of our hilarity, However, Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet came down upon us. It is best to draw a veil over what followed. Suffice it to say that the recollection gave point to Cecily's question. No, It isn't that sort of game at all, Said the story girl. It is this. Each of you boys must preach a sermon as Uncle Edward used to do. One of you next Sunday and another the next and so on. And whoever preaches the best sermon is to get a prize. Dan promptly declared he wouldn't try to preach a sermon. But Peter, Felix and I thought the suggestion a very good one. Secretly I believed I could cut quite a fine figure preaching a sermon. Who'll give the prize? Asked Felix. I will, Said the story girl. I'll give that picture Father sent me last week. As the said picture was an excellent copy of one of Lancia's stags, Felix and I were well pleased. But Peter averred that he would I'd rather have the Madonna that looked like his Aunt Jane. And the story girl agreed that if his sermon was the best, She would give him that. But who's to be the judge? I said. And what kind of a sermon would you call the best? The one that makes the most impression. Answered the story goal promptly. And. . . We girls must be the judges because there's nobody else. Now, Who is to preach next Sunday? It was decided that I should lead off. And I lay awake for an extra hour that night, Thinking what text I should take for the following Sunday. The next day, I bought two sheets of falsecap from the schoolmaster, And after tea, I betook myself to the granary, Barred the door, And fell to writing my sermon. I did not find it as easy a task as I had anticipated. But I pegged grimly away at it, And by dint of severe labour for two evenings, I eventually got my four pages of false cap filled. Although I had to pad the subject matter not a little with the verses of quotable hymns, I had decided to preach on missions as being a topic more within my grasp. Grasp than abstruse theological doctrines or evangelical discourses, And mindful of the need of making an impression, I drew a harrowing picture of the miserable plight of the heathen who in their darkness bowed down to wood and stone. Then I urged our responsibility concerning them, And meant to wind up by reciting, In a very solemn and earnest voice, The verse beginning, Can we whose souls are lighted? When I had completed my sermon, I went over it very carefully again and wrote with red ink, Cecily made it for me out of an aniline dye, The word thump, Wherever I deemed it advisable to thump. Chastise the pulpit. I have that sermon still. All its red thumps, Unfaded, Lying beside my dream book. I'm not going to inflict it on my readers. I am not so proud of it as I once was. I was really puffed up with earthly vanity over it at that time. Felix I thought would be hard put to it to beat it. As for Peter. . . I did not consider him a rival to be feared. Unsupposable that a hired boy with little education and less experience of churchgoing should be able to preach better than could I, In whose family there was a real minister the sermon written, The next thing was to learn it off by heart and then practice it, Thumps included, Until I was letter and gesture perfect. I preached it over several times in the granary, With only Paddy sitting immovably on a puncheon for audience. Paddy stood the test fairly well. At least he made an adorable listener, Save at such times as imaginary rats distracted his attention. Mr Marwood had at least three absorbed listeners the next Sunday morning. Felix, Peter and I were all among the chills who were taking mental notes on the art of preaching a sermon. Not a motion or glance or intonation escaped us. To be sure, None of us could remember the text when we got home, But we knew just how you should throw back your head and clutch the edge of the pulpit with both hands when you announced it. In the afternoon, We all repaired to the orchard, Bibles and hymn books in hand. We did not think it necessary to inform the grown-ups of what was in the wind. You could never tell what kink a grown-up would take. They might not think it proper to play any sort of a game on Sunday, Not even a Christian game. Least said was soonest mended where grown-ups were concerned. I mounted the pulpit steps, Feeling rather nervous, And my audience sat gravely down on the grass before me. Our opening exercises consisted solely of singing and reading. We had agreed to omit prayer. Neither Felix, Peter, Nor I felt equal to praying in public, But we took up a collection. The proceeds were to go to missions. Dan passed the plate, Felicity's rosebud plate, Looking as preternaturally solemn as Elder Fruin. Himself. Everyone put a cent on it. Well, I preached my sermon and it fell horribly flat. I realised that before I was halfway through it. I think I preached it very well, And never a thump did I forget or misplace. But my audience was plainly bored. When I stepped down from the pulpit, After demanding passionately if we whose souls were lighted, And so forth, I felt with secret humiliation that My sermon was a failure. It had made no impression at all. Felix would be sure to get the prize. That was a very good sermon for a first attempt, Said the story girl graciously. It sounded just like real sermons I have heard. For a moment. The charm of her voice made me feel that I had not done so badly after all. But the other girls, Thinking it their duty to pay me some sort of a compliment also. Quickly dispelled that pleasing delusion. Every word of it was true, Said Cecily, Her tone unconsciously implying that this was its sole merit. I often feel, Said Felicity primly, That we don't think enough about the heathens. We ought to think great deal more. Sarah Ray put the finishing touch to my mortification. It was so nice and short, She said. What was the matter with my sermon? I asked Dan that night. Since he was neither judge nor competitor, I could discuss the matter with him. It was too much like a regular sermon to be interested in, Said Dan, Frankly. I should think the more like a regular sermon it was, The better, I said. Not if you want to make an impression, Said Dan seriously. You must have something sort of different for that. Peter. Now, Eel have something different. Oh, Peter. I don't believe he can preach a sermon, I said. Maybe not. But you'll see, He'll make an impression, " said Dan. Dan was neither the prophet nor the son of a prophet, But he had the second sight for once. Peter did make an impression. Chapter 26, Peter makes an impression. Peter's turn came next. He did not write his sermon out. That, He averred, Was too hard work. Nor did he mean to take a text. Why, Whoever heard of a sermon without a text? Asked Felix blankly. I am going to take a subject instead of a text. Said Peter loftily. I ain't going to tie myself down to a text. And I'm going to have Ed's in it. Free Ed's. You hadn't a single Ed in yours, He added to me. Uncle Alex says that, Uncle Edward says that, Heads are beginning to go out of fashion. I said defiantly. All the more defiantly that I felt I should have had heads in my sermon. It would doubtless have made a much deeper impression. But the truth was, I had forgotten all about such things. Well. . . I'm gonna have them. And I don't care if they are unfashionable, " said Peter. They're good things. Aunt Jane used to say, If a man didn't have heads and stick to them, He'd go wandering all over the Bible and never get anywhere in particular. What are you going to preach on? Asked Felix. You'll find out next Sunday, Said Peter significantly. The next Sunday was in October, And a lovely day it was. Warm and bland as June. There was something in the fine, Elusive air that recalled beautiful, Forgotten things and suggested delicate future hopes. The woods had wrapped fine woven gossamers about them, And the westering hill was crimson and gold. We sat around the pulpit stone and waited for Peter and Sarah Ray. It was the former's Sunday off, And he had gone home the night before. But he assured us he would be back in time to preach his sermon. Presently, He arrived. And mounted the granite boulder as if to the manor born. He was dressed in his new suit. And I, Perceiving this, Felt that he had the advantage of me. When I preached, I had to wear my second best suit, For it was one of Aunt Janet's laws that we should take our good suits off when we came home from church. There were, I saw, Compensations for being a hired boy. Peter made quite a handsome little minister in his navy blue coat, White collar and neatly bowed tie. His black eyes shone and his black curls were brushed up in quite a ministerial pompadour, But threatened to tumble over at the top in graceless ringlets. It was decided that there was no use in waiting for Sarah Ray, Who might or might not come according to the humour in which her mother was. Therefore, Peter proceeded with the service. He read the chapter and gave out the hymn with as much sang-froid as if he'd been doing it all his life. Mr Marwood himself could not have bettered the way in which Peter said, We will sing the whole hymn, Omitting the fourth stanza. That was a fine touch, Which I had not thought of. I began to think that After all, Peter might be a foeman worthy of my steel. When Peter was ready to begin, He thrust his hands into his pocket. A totally unorthodox thing. Then he plunged in without further ado, Speaking in his ordinary conversational tone. Another unorthodox thing. There was no shorthand reporter present to take that sermon down, But. . . If necessary. I could preach it over verbatim. And so, I doubt not, Could everyone that heard it. It was not a forgettable kind of sermon. Dearly Beloved. Said Peter. My sermon is about. . . The bad place. In short, About Elle. An electric shock seemed to run through the audience. Everybody looked suddenly alert. Peter had. In one sentence, Done what my whole sermon had failed to do. He had made. And impression. I shall divide my sermon into three Eds, " pursued Peter. The first ed is what you must not do if you don't want to go to the bad place. The second ed is what the bad place is like. Sensation in the audience. And the third ed is how to escape going there. Now, There's a great many things you must not do, And it's very important to know what they are. You ought not to lose no time in finding out. In the first place, You mustn't ever forget to mind what grown-up people tell you. That is good, Grown-up people. How are you going to tell who are the good grown-up people? Asked Felix, Suddenly forgetting that he was in church. Oh. That's easy, " said Peter. You can always just feel. Who is good and who isn't? And you mustn't tell lies and you mustn't murder anyone. You must be specially careful not to murder anyone. You might be forgiven for telling lies if you was real sorry for him. But if you murdered anyone. . . It would be pretty hard to get forgiven. So you'd better be on the safe side and you mustn't commit suicide because if you did that you wouldn't have any chance of repenting it. And you mustn't forget to say your prayers. And you mustn't quarrel with your sister. At this point, Felicity gave Dan a significant poke with her elbow. And Dan was up in arms at once. Don't you be preaching at me, Peter Craig, He cried out. I won't stand it. I don't quarrel with my sister any oftener than she quarrels with me. You can just leave me alone. Who's touching you? Demanded Peter. I didn't mention no names. A minister can say anything he likes in the pulpit as long as he doesn't mention any names and nobody can answer back. All right, But just you wait till tomorrow. Growled Dan. Subsiding reluctantly into silence under the reproachful looks of the girls. You must not play any games on Sunday, Went Aunt Peter. That is, Any weekday games. Or whisper in church or laugh in church. I did that once and I was awful, Sorry. And you mustn't take any notice of Paddy. I mean, Of the family cat. At family prayers, Not even if he climbs up on your back. And you mustn't call names or make faces. Amen, Cried Felix, Who had suffered many things because Felicity so often made faces at him. Peter stopped and glared at him over the edge of the pulpit stone. You haven't any business. To call out a thing like that right in the middle of a sermon, He said. They do it in the Methodist church at Markdale, Protested Felix, Somewhat abashed. I heard them. I know they do. That's the Methodist way. And it's all right for them. I haven't a word to say against Methodists. My Aunt Jane was one, And I might have been one myself if I hadn't been so scared of the Judgment Day. But you ain't a Methodist. You're a Presbyterian, Ain't ya? Yes, Of course, I was. . . Born that way. Very well then. You've got to do things the Presbyterian way. Don't let me hear any more of your amens or I'll amen you. Ugh. Don't anybody interrupt again, Implored the story girl. It isn't fair. How can anyone preach a good sermon if he's always being interrupted? Nobody interrupted Beverly. Beth didn't get up there and pitch into us like that, Muttered Dan. You mustn't fight, Resumed Peter undauntedly. That is, You mustn't fight for the fun of fighting, Nor out of bad temper. You must not say bad words or swear. You mustn't get drunk. Although. . . Of course you wouldn't be likely to do that before you grow up, And the girls never. There's probably a good many other things you mustn't do, But these I've named are the most important. Of course, I'm not saying you'll go to the bad place for sure if you do them. I only say you're running a risk. The devil is looking out for the people who do these things and he'll be more likely to get after them. Than to waste time over the people who don't do them. And that's all about the first ed of my sermon. At this point, Sarah Ray arrived, Somewhat out of breath. Peter looked at her reproachfully. You've missed my whole first aid, Sarah, He said. That isn't fair, When you're to be one of the judges. I think I ought to. . . Preach it over again for you. That was really done once. I know a story about it, Said the story girl. Who's interrupting now, Said Dan slyly. Never mind. Tell us the story, Said the preacher himself, Eagerly leaning over the pulpit. It was Mr Scott who did it, Said the story girl. He was preaching somewhere in Nova Scotia and when he was more than half way through his sermon, And you know sermons were very long in those days, A man walked in. Mr Scott stopped, Until he had taken his seat. Then he said, My friend. You are very late for this service. I hope he won't be late for heaven. The congregation will excuse me if I recapitulate the sermon for our friend's benefit. And then he just preached the sermon over again from the beginning. It is said that that particular man was never known to be late for church again. It served him right, Said Dan, But it was pretty hard lines on the rest of the congregation. Now, Let's be quiet so Peter can go on with his sermon, Said Cecily. Peter squared his shoulders and took hold of the edge of the pulpit. Never a thump had he thumped. But I realised that his way of leaning forward and fixing this one or that one of his hearers with his eye was much more effective. I've come now to the second ed of my sermon. What the bad place is like. He proceeded to describe the bad place. Later on, We discovered that he had found his material in an illustrated translation of Dante's Inferno. Which had once been given to his Aunt Jane as a school prize. But at the time, We supposed he must be drawing from biblical sources. Peter had been reading the Bible steadily ever since what we always refer to as the Judgment Sunday, And he was by now almost through it. None of the rest of us had ever read the Bible completely through. And we thought Peter must have found his description of the world of the lost in some portion with which we were not acquainted. Therefore, His utterances carried all the weight of inspiration. And we sat up. Hold before his lurid phrases. He used his own words to clothe the ideas he had found, And the result was a force and simplicity that struck home to our imaginations. Suddenly, Sarah Ray sprang to her feet with a scream. A scream that changed into strange laughter. We all, Preacher included, Looked at her aghast. Cecily and Felicity sprang up and caught hold of her. Sarah Ray was really in a bad fit of hysterics. But we knew nothing of such a thing in our experience and we thought she had gone mad. She shrieked, Cried, Laughed and flung herself about. She's gone clean crazy. Said Peter. Coming down out of his pulpit with a very pale face. You've frightened her crazy. With your dreadful sermon. Said Felicity indignantly. She and Cecily each took Sarah by an arm and, Half leading, Half carrying, Got her out of the orchard and up to the house. The rest of us looked at each other in terrified questioning. You've made rather too much of an impression, Peter, Said the story girl, Miserably. She needn't have got so scared. If she'd only waited for the third ed. I'd have showed her how easy it was to get clear of going to the bad place and go to heaven instead. You girls are always in such an hurry, " said Peter bitterly. Do you suppose they'll have to take her to the asylum? Said Dan in a whisper. Hush, He's your father. Said Felix. Uncle Alec came striding down the orchard. We had never before seen Uncle Alec angry. But there was no doubt that he was very angry. His blue eyes fairly blazed at us as he said, What have you been doing to frighten Sarah Ray into such a condition? We were just having a sermon contest explained the story girl tremulously and peter preached about the bad place and it frightened Sarah. That is all, Uncle Alex. Owl? I don't know what the result will be. To that nervous, Delicate child. She is shrieking in there. And nothing will quiet her. What do you mean by playing such a game on Sunday? And making a jest of sacred things. Not a word. For the story girl had attempted to speak. You and Peter, March off home. And the next time I find you up to such doings on Sunday or any other day. I'll give you cause to remember it to your latest hour. The Story Girl and Peter went humbly home. And we went with them. I can't understand grown-up people, Said Felix despairingly. When Uncle Edward preached sermons, It was all right. But when we do it, It is making a jest of sacred things. And I heard Uncle Alec tell a story once about being nearly frightened to death when he was a little boy by a minister preaching on the end of the world. And he said, That was something like a sermon. You don't hear such sermons nowadays. But when Peter preaches just such a sermon. . . It's a very different story. It's no wonder we can't understand the grown-ups, Said the story girl indignantly, Because we've never been grown-up ourselves. Bay! Have been children. And I don't see why they can't understand us. Of course, Perhaps we shouldn't have had the contest on Sundays. But all the same, I think it's mean of Uncle Alec to be so cross. I do hope poor Sarah won't have to be taken to the asylum. Poor Sarah did not have to be, She was eventually quieted down, And was as well as usual the next day, And she humbly begged Peter's pardon for spoiling his sermon. Peter granted it, Rather grumpily. And I fear that he never really quite forgave Sarah for her untimely outburst. Felix, Too, Felt resentment against her because he had lost the chance of preaching his sermon. Of course, I know I wouldn't have got the prize, For I couldn't have made such an impression as Peter, He said to us mournfully, But I'd like to have had a chance to show what I could do. That's what comes of having those crybaby girls mixed up in things. Cecily was just as scared as Sarah Ray, But she'd more sense than to show it like that. Well, Sarah couldn't help it, Said the story girl charitably, But it does seem as if we'd had dreadful luck in everything we've tried lately. I thought of a new game this morning but I'm almost afraid to mention it. I suppose something dreadful will come of it too. Oh, Tell us, What is it? Everybody entreated. Wow. It's a trial by ordeal and we're to see which of us can pass it. The ordeal is to eat one of the bitter apples in big mouthfuls without making a single face. Dan made a face to begin with. I don't believe any of us can do that, He said. You can't, If you take bites big enough to fill your mouth, Giggled Felicity, With cruelty and without provocation. Well, Maybe you could, Retorted Dan sarcastically. You'd be so afraid of spoiling your looks that you'd rather die than make a face, I suppose, No matter what you ate. Felicity makes enough faces when there's nothing to make faces at, Said Felix, Who had been grimaced at over the breakfast table that morning and hadn't liked it. I think the bitter apples would be real good for Felix, Said Felicity. They say sour things make people thin. Let's go and get the bitter apples, Said Cecily hastily, Seeing that Felix, Felicity and Dan were on the verge of a quarrel more bitter than the apples. We went to the seedling tree and got an apple apiece. The game was that everyone must take a bite in turn, Chew it up and swallow it without making a face. Peter again distinguished himself. He and he alone passed the ordeal. Munching those dreadful mouthfuls without so much as a change of expression on his countenance. While the facial contortions the rest of us went through baffled description. In every subsequent trial, It was the same. Peter never made a face. And no one else could help making them. It sent him up 50% in Felicity's estimation. Peter is a real smart boy. She said to me. It's such a. . . Pity. He is a hired boy. But. . . If we could not pass the ordeal, We got any amount of fun out of it at least. Evening after evening, The orchard re-echoed to our peals of laughter. Bless the children, Said Uncle Alec as he carried the milk pails across the yard. Nothing can quench their spirits for long. Chapter 27. The ordeal of bitter apples. I could never understand why Felix took Peter's success in the ordeal of bitter apples so much to heart. He had not felt very keenly over the matter of the sermons, And certainly the mere fact that Peter could eat sour apples without making faces did not cast any reflection on the honour or ability of the other competitors. But to Felix. Everything suddenly became. . . Flat. Stale. And unprofitable. Because Peter continued to hold the championship of bitter apples. It haunted his waking hours and obsessed his nights. I heard him talking in his sleep about it. If anything could have made him thin, The way he worried over this matter would have done it. For myself, I care not a groat. I had wished to be successful in the sermon contest and felt sore whenever I thought of my failure, But I had no burning desire to eat sour apples without grimacing. I did not sympathise, Over and above, With my brother. When, However, He took to praying about it. I realised how deeply he felt on the subject and hoped he would be successful. Felix prayed earnestly. That he might be enabled to eat a bitter apple without making a face. And when he had prayed three nights after this manner, He contrived to eat a bitter apple without a grimace until he came to the last bite. Which proved too much for him. But Felix was vastly encouraged. Another prayer or two and I'll be able to eat a whole one, He said jubilantly. But this devoutly desired consummation did not come to pass. In spite of prayers and heroic attempts. Felix could never get beyond that last bite. Not even faith and works in combination could avail. For a time, He could not understand this. But he thought the mystery was solved when Cecily came to him one day and told him that Peter was praying against him. He's praying that. . . You'll never be able to eat a bitter apple without making a face, She said. He told Felicity and Felicity told me. She said she thought it was real cute of him. I think that is a dreadful way to talk about praying. And I told her so. She wanted me to promise not to tell you. But I wouldn't promise because. . . I think it's fair for you to know what is going on. Felix was very indignant and aggrieved as well. I don't see why God should answer Peter's prayers instead of mine. He said bitterly. I've gone to church and Sunday school all my life. Peter never went till this summer. It isn't fair. Oh! Felix, Don't talk like that, Said Cecily, Shocked. God must be fair. I'll tell you what I believe is the reason. Peter prays three times a day, Regular. In the morning, And at dinner time, And at night. And besides that, Any time through the day when he happens to think of it, He just prays, Standing up. You ever hear of such goings-on. Well. He's got to stop preying against me anyhow, Said Felix resolutely. I won't put up with it. And I'll go and tell them so. Right off. Felix marched over to Uncle Roger's. And we trailed after. Scenting a scene. We found Peter shelling beans in the granary and whistling cheerily, As with a conscience void of offence towards all men. Look here, Peter. Said Felix ominously, They tell me that you've been praying right along that I couldn't eat a bitter apple. Now, I tell you, I never did, Exclaimed Peter indignantly. I never mentioned your name. I never prayed that you couldn't eat a bitter apple. I just prayed that I'd be the only one that could. Well. . . That's the same thing, Cried Felix. You've just been praying for the opposite to me out of spite. And you've got to stop it, Peter Craig. Well, I just guess I won't, Said Peter angrily. I've just as good a right to pray for what I want as you, Felix King, Even if you was brought up in Toronto. I suppose you think a hired boy hasn't any business to pray for particular things. But I'll show you. I'll just pray for what I please. And I'd like to see you try and stop me. You'll have to fight me if you keep on praying against me, Said Felix. The girls gasped. But Dan and I were jubilant. Snuffing battle afar off. All right? I can fight as well as pray. Oh. Don't fight, Implored Cecily. I think it would be dreadful. Surely you can arrange it some other way. Let's all give up the ordeal anyway. There isn't much fun in it. And then neither of you need pray about it. I don't want to give up. The ordeal. Said Felix. And I won't. Oh, Well. Surely you can settle it some way without fighting? Persisted Cecily. I'm not wanting to fight. Said Peter. Is Felix. If ye don't interfere with my prayers, There's no need of fighting. But if he does. . . There's no other way to settle it. But how will that settle it? Asked Cecily. Oh. Whoever's licked will have to give in about the praying, Said Peter. That's fair enough. If I'm licked, I won't pray for that particular thing anymore. It's dreadful to fight about anything so religious as praying, Sighed poor Cecily. Why? They were always fighting about religion in old times, Said Felix. The more religious anything was, The more fighting there was about it. A fellow's got a right to pray as he pleases, Said Peter. And if anybody tries to stop him, He's bound to fight. That's my way of looking at it. What would Miss Marwood say if she knew you were going to fight? Asked Felicity. Miss Marwood was Felix's Sunday school teacher and he was very fond of her. But by this time, Felix was quite reckless. I don't care what she would say, He retorted. Felicity tried another tack. You'll be sure to get whipped if you fight with Peter, She said. You're too fat to fight. After that, No moral force on earth could have prevented Felix from fighting. He would have faced an army with banners. You might settle it by drawing lots, Said Cecily desperately. Drawing lots is wickeder than fighting, Said Dan. It's a kind of gambling. What would Aunt Jane say if she knew you were going to fight? Cecily demanded of Peter. Don't you drag my Aunt Jane into this affair, Said Peter darkly. You? Said, You were going to be a Presbyterian, Persisted Cecily. Good Presbyterians do not Don't fight. Oh, Don't they? I heard your Uncle Roger say that Presbyterians were the best for fighting in the world. Or the worst. I forget what she said but it means the same thing. Cecily had but one more shot in her locker. I thought you said in your sermon, Master Peter, That People shouldn't fight. I said they oughtn't to fight for fun or for bad temper, Retorted Peter. This is different. I know what I'm fighting for, But. . . I can't think of the word. I guess you mean principle, I suggested. Yes, That's it, Agreed Peter. It's all right to fight for principle. Is kinder. Praying with your fists. Oh, Can't you do something to prevent them from fighting, Sarah? Pleaded Cecily turning to the story girl. Who was sitting on a bin, Swinging her shapely bare feet to and fro. It doesn't do to meddle in an affair of this kind between boys, Said the story girl sagely. I may be mistaken, But. . . I do not believe the story girl wanted that fight stopped. And I am far from being sure that Felicity did either. It was ultimately arranged that the combat should take place in the firwood behind Uncle Roger's granary. It was a nice, Remote, Bosky place where no prowling grown-up would be likely to intrude. And thither we all resorted at sunset. I hope Felix will beat, Said the story girl to me, Not only for the family honour, But Because that was a mean, Mean prayer of Peter's. Do you think he will? I don't know. I confessed dubiously. Felix is too fat. He'll get out of breath in no time. And Peter is such a cool customer. And he's a year older than Felix. But then Felix has had some practice. He has fought boys in Toronto, And this is Peter's first fight. Did you ever fight? Asked the story girl. Once, I said briefly, Dreading the next question, Which promptly came, Who beat? It is sometimes a better thing to tell the truth. Especially to a young lady for whom you have a great admiration. I had a struggle with temptation, In which I frankly confess I might have been worsted had it not been for a saving and timely remembrance of a certain resolution made on the day preceding Judgement Sunday. The other fellow, I said with reluctant honesty. Well, Said the story girl, I think it doesn't matter whether you get whipped or not, So long as you fight a good square fight. Her potent voice made me feel that I was quite a hero after all. And the sting went out of my recollection of that old fight. When we arrived behind the granary, The others were all there. Cecily was very pale. And Felix and Peter were taking off their coats. There was a pure yellow sunset that evening, And the aisles of the firwood were flooded with its radiance. A cool autumnal wind was whistling among the dark boughs and scattering blood-red leaves from the maple at the end of the granary. Now, So Dan, I'll count and when I say three, You pitch in and hammer each other until one of you has had enough. Cecily, Keep quiet. Now, One, Two, Three. Peter and Felix pitched in with more zeal than discretion on both sides. As a result, Peter got what later developed into a black eye and Felix's nose began to bleed. Cecily gave a shriek and ran out of the wood. But we thought she had fled because she could not endure the sight of blood. And we were not sorry for her manifest disapproval and anxiety were damping the excitement of the occasion. Felix and Peter drew apart after that first onset and circled about one another warily. Then, Just as they had come to grips again, Uncle Alec walked around the corner of the granary with Cecily behind him. He was not angry. There was a quizzical look in his eyes. But he took the combatants by their shirt collars and dragged them apart. This stops right here, Boys, He said. You know I don't allow fighting. Oh. But Uncle Alec, It was this way, Began Felix eagerly. Peter, No. I don't want to hear about it, Said Uncle Alec sternly. I don't care what you are fighting about. But you must settle your quarrels in a different fashion. Remember my commands, Felix. Peter. Roger is looking for you to wash his buggy. Be off. Peter went off rather sullenly, And Felix, Also sullenly, Sat down and began to nurse his nose. He turned his back on Cecily. Cecily caught it after Uncle Alec had gone. Dan called her a telltale and a baby and sneered at her until Cecily Cecily began to cry. I couldn't stand by and watch Felix and Peter. Pound each other all to pieces, She sobbed. They've been such friends. And it was dreadful to see them fighting. Uncle Roger would have let them fight it out, Said the story girl discontentedly. Uncle Roger believes in boys fighting. He says it's as harmless a way as any of working off their original sin. Peter and Felix wouldn't have been any worse friends after it. They'd have been better friends, Because the praying question would have been settled. And now it can't be. Unless Felicity can coax Peter to give up praying against Felix. For once in her life, The story girl was not as tactful as her want. Or is it possible that she said it out of malice propense? At all events, Felicity resented the imputation that she had more influence with Peter than anyone else. I don't meddle with hired boys' prayers, " she said haughtily. It was all nonsense fighting about such prayers anyhow, Said Dan, Who probably thought that since all chance of a fight was over, He might as well avow his real sentiments as to its folly. Just as much nonsense as praying about the bitter apples in the first place. Oh. Done. Don't you believe there is some good in praying? " said Cecily reproachfully. Yes, I believe there's some good in some kinds of praying, But not in that kind, Said Dan sturdily. I don't believe God cares whether anybody can eat an apple without making a face or not. I don't believe it's right to talk of God as if you were well acquainted with him, " said Felicity, Who felt that it was a good chance to snub Dan. There's something wrong somewhere, Said Cecily perplexedly. We ought to pray for what we want. Of that, I'm sure. And Peter wanted to be the only one who could pass the ordeal. It seems as if he must be right. And yet it doesn't seem so. I wish I could understand it. Peter's prayer was wrong, Because it was a selfish prayer, I guess. Said the story girl thoughtfully. Felix's prayer was all right, Because it wouldn't have hurt anyone else. But it was selfish of Peter to want to be the only one. We mustn't pray selfish prayers. Oh. I see through it now, " said Cecily joyfully. Yes, But, Said Dan triumphantly, If you believe God answers prayers about particular things. It was Peter's prayer, He answered. What do you make of that? Ugh. The story girl shook her head impatiently. There's no use trying to make such things out. We only get more mixed up all the time. Let's leave it alone and I'll tell you a story. Aunt Olivia had a letter today from a friend in Nova Scotia who lives in Shubenacadie. When I said, I thought it a funny name. She told me to go and look in her scrapbook. And I would find a story about the origin of the name. And I did. Don't you want to hear it? Of course we did. We all sat down at the roots of the firs. Felix, Having finally squared matters with his nose, Turned around and listened also. He would not look at Cecily. But everyone else had forgiven her. The story girl leaned that brown head of hers against the fur trunk behind her and looked up at the apple green sky through the dark boughs above us. She wore, I remember, A dress of warm crimson, And she had wound around her head a string of wax berries that looked like a fillet of pearls. Her cheeks were still flushed with the excitement of the evening. In the dim light, She was beautiful, With a wild, Mystic loveliness. A compelling charm that would not be denied. Many, Many moons ago. An Indian tribe lived on the banks of a river. In Nova Scotia. One of the young Braves was named, Ackerdee. He was the tallest and bravest and handsomest young man in the tribe. Why is it they're always so handsome in stories? Asked Dan. Why are there never no stories about ugly people? Perhaps ugly people never have stories happen to them, Suggested Felicity. I think they're just as interesting as the handsome people, " retorted Dan. Well, Maybe they are in real life, Said Cecily, But in stories it's just as easy to make them handsome as not. I like them best that way. I just love to read a story where the heroine is beautiful as a dream. Pretty people are always conceited, Said Felix, Who was getting tired of holding his tongue. The heroes in stories are always nice, Said Felicity with apparent irrelevance. They're always so tall and slender. Wouldn't it be awful funny if anyone wrote a story about a fat hero? Or about one with too big a mouth? It doesn't matter what a man looks like. I said, Feeling that Felix and Dan were catching it rather too hotly. He must be a good sort of chap and do heaps of things. That's all that's necessary. Dew. Any of you happen to want to hear the rest of my story? Asked the story go. In an ominously polite voice. That recalled us to a sense of our bad manners. We apologised and promised to behave better. She went on, Appeased. Ackerdy was all these things that I have mentioned, And he was the best hunter in the tribe, Besides. Never an arrow of his that did not go straight to the mark. Many and many a snow-white moose he shot, And gave the beautiful skin to his sweetheart. Her name was Shubin and she was as lovely as the moon when it rises from the sea. And as pleasant as a summer twilight. Her eyes were dark and soft, Her foot was as light as a breeze, And her voice sounded like a brook in the woods, Or the wind that comes over the hills at night. She and Akkadi were very much in love with each other. And often they hunted together, For Shubin was almost as skilful with her bow and arrow as Akkadi himself. They had loved each other ever since they were small puppuses, And they had vowed to love each other as long as the river ran. One twilight, When Akkadie was out hunting in the woods, He shot a snow-white moose and he took off its skin and wrapped it around him. Then he went on through the woods in the starlight. And he felt so happy and light of heart that he sometimes frisked and capered about, Just as a real moose would do. And he was doing this when Shubin, Who was also out hunting, Saw him from afar and thought he was a real moose. She stole cautiously through the woods, Until she came to the brink of a little valley. Below her stood the snow-white moose. She drew her arrow to her eye, Alas, She knew the art only too well and took careful aim. The next moment, Akkady fell dead with her arrow in his heart. The story girl paused a dramatic pause. It was quite dark in the fir wood. We could see her face and eyes, But dimly through the gloom. A silvery moon was looking down on us over the granary. The stars twinkled through the softly waving boughs. Beyond the wood, We caught a glimpse of a moonlit world lying in the sharp frost of the October evening. The sky above it was chill and ethereal and mystical. But all about us. Were shadows. And the weird little tale, Told in a voice fraught with mystery and pathos, Had peopled them for us with furtive folk in belt and wampum and dark-tressed Indian maidens. What did Shubin do when she found out she had. . . Killed Akagi. Past felicity. She died. Of a broken heart. Before the spring. And she and Akkadi were buried side by side on the bank of the river. Which has ever since borne their names. The river Shubun-Akkadi, Said the story girl. The sharp wind blew around the granary and Cecily shivered. We heard Aunt Janet's voice calling, Children, Children, Shaking off the spell of furs and moonlight and romantic tale. We scrambled to our feet and went homeward. I kinda wish I'd been born an Injun, " said Dan. It must have been a jolly life, Nothing to do but hunt and fight. It wouldn't be so nice if they caught you and tortured you at the stake, Said Felicity. No, Said Dan, Reluctantly. I suppose there'd be some drawback to everything, Even being an Injun. Isn't it cold? " said Cecily, Shivering again. It will soon be winter. I wish summer could last forever. Felicity likes the winter, And so does the Story Girl, But I don't. It always seems so long till spring. Never mind. We've had a splendid summer, I said, Slipping my arm about her, To comfort some childish sorrow that breathed in her plaintive voice. Truly, We had had a delectable summer. And having had it, It was ours forever. The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts. They may rob us of our future and embitter our present, But our past they may not touch. With all its laughter and delight and glamour, It is our eternal possession. Nevertheless, We all felt a little of the sadness of the waning year. There was a distinct weight on our spirits. Until Felicity took us into the pantry and stayed us with apple tarts and comforted us with cream. Then we brightened up. It was, Really, A very decent world, After all. Chapter 28 The Tale of the Rainbow Bridge Felix, So far as my remembrance goes, Never attained to success in the ordeal of bitter apples. He gave up trying after a while. And he also gave up praying about it, Saying in bitterness of spirit that there was no use in praying when other fellows prayed against you out of spite. He and Peter remained on bad terms for some time, However. We were, All of us, Too tired those nights to do any special praying. Sometimes, I fear, Our regular prayers were slurred over or mumbled in anything but reverent haste. October was a busy month on the hill farms. The apples had to be picked and this work fell mainly to us children. We stayed home from school to do it. It was pleasant work and there was a great deal of fun in it. It was hard, Too. And our arms and backs ached roundly at night. In the mornings, It was very delightful. In the afternoons, Tolerable. But in the evenings, We lagged. And the laughter and zest of fresher hours were lacking. Some of the apples had to be picked very carefully. But with others, It did not matter. We boys would climb the trees and shake the apples down until the girls shrieked for mercy. The days were crisp and mellow, With warm sunshine and a tang of frost in the air, Mingled with the woodsy odours of the withering grasses. The hens and turkeys prowled about, Pecking at windfalls, And Pat made mad rushes at them amid the fallen leaves. The world beyond the orchard was in a royal magnificence of colouring under the vivid blue autumn sky. The big willow by the gate was a splendid golden dome, And the maples that were scattered through the spruce grove waved blood-red banners over the sombre cone-bearers. The story girl generally had her head garlanded with their leaves. They became her vastly. Neither Felicity nor Cecily could have warned them. Those two girls were of a. . . Domestic type that assorted ill with the wildfire in nature's veins. But when the story-girl wreathed her nut-brown tresses with crimson leaves, It seemed, As Peter said, That they grew on her as if the gold and flame of her spirit had broken out in a coronal as much a part of her as the pale halo seems a part of the Madonna it encircles. What tales she told us on those far away autumn days, Peopling the russet arcades with folk of an elder world. Many a princess rode by us on her palfrey. Many a swaggering gallant ruffled it bravely in velvet and plume adown Uncle Stephen's wall. Book. Many a stately lady, Silken clad, Walked in that opulent orchard. When we had filled our baskets, They had to be carried to the granary loft. And the contents stored in bins or spread on the floor to ripen further. We ate a good many, Of course, Feeling that the labourer was worthy of his hire. The apples from our own birthday trees were stored in separate barrels inscribed with our names. We might dispose of them as we willed. Felicity sold hers to Uncle Alex, Hired man. And was badly cheated to boot, For he levanted shortly afterwards, Taking the apples with him. Having paid her only half her rightful due. Felicity has not gotten over that to this day. Cecily, Dear heart, Sent most of hers to the hospital in town, And no doubt gathered in there from dividends of gratitude and satisfaction of soul such as can never be purchased by any mere process of bargain and sale. The rest of us ate our apples or carried them to school where we bartered them for such treasures as our schoolmates possessed and we coveted. There was a dusky little pear shaped apple from one of Uncle Stephen's trees, Which was our favourite. And next to it, A delicious juicy yellow apple from Aunt Louisa's tree. Tree. We were also fond of the big sweet apples. We used to throw them up in the air and let them fall on the ground until they were bruised and battered to the bursting point. Then we sucked on the juice. Sweeter was it than the nectar drunk by blissful gods on the Thessalian hill. Faded out over the darkening distances, And the hunter's moon looked down on us through the sparkling air. The constellations of autumn scintillated above us. Peter and the Story Girl knew all about them, And imparted their knowledge to us generously. I recall Peter standing on the pulpit stone one night, Ere moonrise, And pointing them out to us, Occasionally having a difference of opinion with the story girl over the name of some particular star. Job's coffin and the northern cross were to the west of us, South of us flamed Fomalhaut, The great square of Pegasus was over our heads, Cassiopeia sat enthroned in her chair in the northeast and north of us the dippers swung untiringly around the pole star. Cecily and Felix were the only ones who could distinguish the double star in the handle of the Big Dipper. And greatly did they plume themselves thereon. The story girl told us the myths and legends woven around these immemorial clusters. Her very voice taking on a clear, Remote, Starry sound as she talked of them. When she ceased, We came back to earth, Feeling as if we had been millions of miles away. In the blue ether, And that all our old familiar surroundings were momentarily forgotten and strange. That night when he pointed out the stars to us from the pulpit stone was the last time for several weeks that Peter shared our toil and pastime. The next day, He complained of headache and sore throat and seemed to prefer lying on Aunt Olivia's kitchen sofa to doing any work. As it was not in Peter to be a malingerer. He was left in peace while we picked apples. Felix alone, Most unjustly and spitefully, Declared that Peter was simply shirking. He's just lazy. That's what's the matter with him, He said. Why don't you talk sense if you must talk? " said Felicity. There's no sense in calling Peter lazy. You might as well say I had black hair. Of course, Peter, Being a Craig, Has his faults. But he's a smart boy. His father was lazy, But his mother hasn't a lazy bone in her body. And Peter takes after her. Uncle Roger says Peter's father wasn't exactly lazy, Said the story girl. The trouble was there were so many other things he liked better than work. I wonder if he'll ever come back to his family, Said Cecily. Just think how dreadful it would be if our father had left us like that. Our father is a king, Said Felicity loftily, And Peter's father was only a Craig. A member of our family couldn't behave like that. They say there must be a black sheep in every family, Said the story girl. There isn't any in ours, Said Cecily, Loyally. Why do white sheep eat more than black? Asked Felix. Is that a conundrum? Asked Cecily cautiously. If it is, I won't try to guess the reason. I never can guess conundrums. It isn't a conundrum, " said Felix. It's a fact. They do. And there's a good reason for it. We stopped picking apples, Sat down on the grass, And tried to reason it out. With the exception of Dan who declared that he knew there was a catch somewhere and he wasn't going to be caught. The rest of us could not see where any catch could exist. Since Felix solemnly vowed, Cross his heart, White sheep did eat more than black. We argued over it. Seriously. But finally had to give it up. Well, What is the reason? Asked Felicity. Because there's more of them, Said Felix, Grinning. I forget what we did to Felix. A shower came up in the evening and we had to stop picking. After the shower, There was a magnificent double rainbow. We watched it from the granary window and the story girl told us an old legend culled from one of Aunt Olivia's many scrapbooks. Long, Long ago, In the Golden Age, When the gods used to visit the Earth so often that it was nothing uncommon to see them, Odin made a pilgrimage over the world. Odin was the great god of the Northland, You know, And wherever he went among men, He taught them love and brotherhood and skillful arts. And great cities sprang up where he had trodden. And every land through which he passed was blessed because one of the gods had come down to men. But many men and women followed Odin himself, Giving up all their worldly possessions and ambitions. And to these, He promised the gift of eternal life. All these people were good and noble and unselfish and kind. But the best and noblest of them all was a youth named Ving. And this youth was beloved by Odin, Above all others, For his beauty and strength and Goodness. Always he walked on Odin's right hand, And always the first light of Odin's smile fell on him. Tall and straight was he as a young pine, And his long hair was the colour of ripe wheat in the sun, And his blue eyes were like the Northland heavens on a starry night. In Odin's band was a beautiful beautiful maiden named Aline. She was as fair and delicate as a young birch tree in spring, Among the dark old pines and firs, And Ving loved her with all his heart. His soul thrilled with rapture at the thought that he and she together should drink from the fountain of immortality as Odin had promised and be one thereafter in eternal youth. And last, They came to the very place where the rainbow touched the earth. And the rainbow was a great bridge. Built of living colours, So dazzling and wonderful that beyond it the eye could see nothing. Only far away, A great blinding sparkling glory, Where the fountain of life sprang up in a shower of diamond fire. But under the rainbow bridge rolled a terrible flood, Deep and wide and violent, Full of rocks and rapids and whirlpools. There was a warder of the bridge, A god, Dark and stern and sorrowful. And to him, Odin gave command that he should open the gate and allow his followers to cross the rainbow bridge, That they might drink of the fountain of life beyond. And the water set open the gate. And pass on and drink of the fountain, He said. To all who taste of it shall immortality be given. But only to that one who shall drink of it first shall be permitted to walk at Odin's right hand forever. Then the company passed through in great haste, All fired with the desire to be the first to drink of the fountain and win so marvellous a boon. Last of all, Came. . . Vein. He had lingered behind. To pluck a thorn from the foot of a beggar child he had met on the highway. And he had not heard the warder's words. But when, Eager, Joyous, Radiant, He set his foot on the rainbow, The stern, Sorrowful warder took him by the arm and drew him back. Ving, Strong, Noble and valiant, He said. Rainbow Bridge is not for thee. Very dark, Grooving face. A hot rebellion rose in his heart and rushed over his pale lips. Why, Dost thou keep back the draught of immortality from me? He demanded passionately. The water pointed to the dark flood that rolled under the bridge. The path. Of the rainbow. Is not for thee. He said. But yonder way is open. Forward that flood. On the furthest bank is the fountain of life. Vow. Mockest me. Muttered Ving sullenly. No mortal could cross that flood. Oh master, He prayed, Turning beseechingly to Odin. Thou didst promise to me eternal life as to the others. Will thou not keep that promise? Command the warder to let me pass. He must obey thee. But Odin? Stupid. Silent. With his face turn. From his beloved. And Ving's heart was filled with unspeakable bitterness and despair. Thou mayest return to earth if thou fearest to say the flood, Said the warder. Nay. Said Ving, Wildly. Earthly life without Aline is more dreadful than the death which awaits me in Yondark River. And he plunged fiercely in. He swam and struggled. He buffeted the turmoil. The waves went over his head again and again. The whirlpools caught him and flung him on the cruel rocks. The wild cold spray beat on his eyes and blinded him so that he could see nothing and the roar of the river deafened him so that he could hear nothing. But he felt, Keenly, The wounds and bruises of the cruel rocks. And many a time he would have given up the struggle, Had not the thought of sweet Aline's loving eyes brought him the strength and desire to struggle as long as it was possible. Lung Long. Long. To him seeing that bitter and perilous passage, But at last he won through to the furthest side. Breathless and reeling, His vesture torn, His great wounds bleeding, He found himself on the shore. Where the fountain of immortality sprang up. He staggered to its brink and drank of its clear stream. Then all pain and weariness fell away from him, And he rose up, A god, Beautiful with immortality. And as he did, There came rushing over the rainbow bridge, A great company, The band of fellow travellers, But all were too late to win the double. Boon. Ving had won to it through the danger and suffering of the dark river. The rainbow had faded out. And the darkness of the October dusk was falling. I wonder, Said Dan meditatively as we went away from that redolent spot, What it would be like to live forever in this world. I expect we'd get tired of it after a while, Said the story girl. But, She added, I think it would be a goodly while before I would. Chapter 29 The Shadow Feared of Man We were all up early the next morning, Dressing by candlelight. But early as it was, We found the story girl in the kitchen when we went down. Sitting on Rachel Ward's blue chest and looking important. What do you think? She exclaimed, Peter! Has the measles. He was dreadfully sick all night. And Uncle Roger had to go for the doctor. He was quite different. Light-headed and didn't know anyone. Of course, He's far too sick to be taken home. So his mother has come up to wait on him. And I'm to live over here until he is better. This was mingled bitter and sweet. We were sorry to hear that Peter had the measles. It would be jolly to have the story girl living with us all the time. What orgies of storytelling we should have! I suppose we'll all have the measles now, Grumbled Felicity, And October. Is such an inconvenient time for measles. There's so much to do! I don't believe any time is very convenient to have the measles, Cecily said. Oh, Perhaps we won't have them, Said the story girl cheerfully. Peter caught them at Markdale, The last time he was home, His mother says. I don't want to catch the measles from Peter, Said Felicity decidedly. Fancy! Watching them from a hired boy. Felicity! Don't call Peter a hired boy when he's sick. Protested Cecily. During the next two days, We were very busy. Too busy to tell tales or listen to them. Only in the frosty dusk did we have time to wander afar in realms of gold with the Story Girl. She had recently been digging into a couple of old volumes of classic myths and Northland folklore, Which she had found in Aunt Olivia's attic. And for us, God and Goddess, Laughing Nymph and Mocking Satyr, Norn and Valkyrie, Elf and Troll, And Green Folk generally, Were real creatures once again. Inhabiting the orchards and woods and meadows around us, Until it seemed as if the Golden Age had returned to Earth. Then, On the third day, The story girl came to us with a very white face. She had been over to Uncle Roger's yard to hear the latest bulletin from the sick room. Hitherto they had been of a non-committal nature, But now it was only too evident that she had bad news. Peter is very, Very sick, She said miserably. He has caught cold someway. And the measles have struck in and the story girl wrung her brown hands together. The doctor is afraid he won't get better. Do you mean, Said Felix, Finding voice at length, That Peter. Is going to die. The story go. Nodded miserably. They're afraid so. Cecily sat down by her half-filled basket and began to cry. Felicity said violently that she didn't believe it. I can't pick another apple today. And I ain't gonna try. Said Dan. None of us could. We went to the grown-ups and told them so. And the grown-ups, With unaccustomed understanding and sympathy, Told us that we need not. Then we roamed about in our wretchedness and tried to comfort one another. We avoided the orchard. It was, For us, Too full of happy memories to accord with our bitterness of soul. Instead, We resorted to the spruce wood, Where the hush and the sombre shadows and the soft, Melancholy sighing of the wind in the branches over us did not jar harshly on our new sorrow. We could not really believe that Peter. . . Was going to die. Die. Old people died. Grown-up people died. Even children of whom we had heard died. That one of us, Of our merry little band, Should die, Was Unbelievable. We could not believe it. And yet the possibility struck us in the face like a blow. We sat on the mossy stones under the dark old evergreens and gave ourselves up to wretchedness. We all, Even Dan, Cried. Except the story girl. I don't see how you can be so unfeeling, Sarah Stanley, Said Felicity reproachfully. You've always been such friends with Peter and made out you thought so much of him and now you ain't shedding a tear for him. I looked at the story girl's dry, Piteous eyes. And suddenly remembered that I had never seen her cry. When she told us sad tales. In a voice laden with all the tears that had ever been shed. She had never shed one of her own. I can't cry. She said drearily, I wish I could. I've a dreadful feeling here. She touched her slender throat. And if I could cry, I think it would make it better. But I can't. Maybe Pete will. Get better after all, " said Dan, Swallowing a sob. I've heard of lots of people who went and got better. After the doctor said they were going to die. While there's life, There's hope, You know, Said Felix. We shouldn't cross bridges till we come to them. Those are only proverbs. Said the story go bitterly. Proverbs are all very fine when there's nothing to worry you, But when you're in real trouble. . . They're not a bit of help. Oh, I wish I'd never said Peter wasn't fit to associate with, Moaned Felicity. If he ever gets better. I'll never say such a thing again. I'll never think it. He's just a lovely boy. And twice as smart as lots that aren't hired out. He was always so polite and good-natured and obliging, Sighed Cecily. He was just a. . . Real gentlemen, Said the story girl. There ain't many fellas as fair and square as Peter, Said Dan. And such a worker, Said Felix. Uncle Roger says he never had a boy he could depend on like Peter, I said. It's too late. To be saying all these nice things about him now, Said the story girl. He won't ever know how much we thought of him. It's too late. If he gets better, I'll tell him, Said Cecily resolutely. I wish I hadn't boxed his ears that day he tried to kiss me, Went on Felicity, Who was evidently raking her conscience for past offences in regard to Peter. Of course, I couldn't be expected to let a heart. . . To let a boy kiss me, But. . . I needn't have been so cross about it. I might have been more dignified. I told him I just. . . Hated him. That wasn't true, But I suppose he'll die thinking it is. Oh dear me. What makes people say things they've got to be so sorry for afterwards? I suppose if Peter dies, He'll. . . Go to heaven anyhow. Sobbed Cecily. He's been real good all this summer. But he isn't a church member. He's a Presbyterian, You know? Said Felicity reassuringly. Her tone expressed her conviction that that would carry Peter through, If anything would. We're none of us church members, But. . . Of course, Peter couldn't be sent to the bad place. That would be ridiculous. What would they do with him there? When he's Soap. Good and polite and. . . Honest and Kind? Oh. I think he'll be alright too, Side to Cecily. You know, He never did go to church and Sunday school before this summer. Well. . . His father ran away and his mother was too busy earning a living to. . . Bring him upright. Argued Felicity. Don't you suppose that anybody? Even God would make allowances for that? Of course Peter will go to heaven, Said the story girl. He's not grown up enough to go anywhere else. Children always go to heaven. But I don't want him to go there or anywhere else. I want him to stay right here. I know heaven must be a splendid place but I'm sure Peter would rather be here, Having fun with us. Sarah Stanley! Rebuked Felicity. I should think you wouldn't say such things at such a solemn time. You're such a queer girl. Wouldn't you rather be here yourself than in heaven? Said the story girl bluntly. Wouldn't you now, Felicity King? Tell the truth. Cross your heart. But Felicity took refuge from this inconvenient question in tears. If we could only do something to help Peter. I said desperately. It seems dreadful not to be able to do a single thing. There's one thing we can do. Said Cecily gently. We can pray for him. So we can, I agreed. I'm going to pray like 60, Said Felix energetically. We'll have to be awful good, You know, " warned Cecily. There's no use praying if you're not good. That will be easy, Sighed Felicity. I don't feel a bit like being bad, If anything happens to Peter. I feel sure I'll never be naughty again. I won't have the heart. We did indeed pray most sincerely for Peter's recovery. We did not, As in the case of Paddy, Tack it on after more important things, But put it in the very forefront of our petitions. Even sceptical Dan prayed, His scepticism falling away from him like a discarded garment in this valley of the shadow, Which sifts out hearts and tries souls. Until we all, Grown up or children, Realise our weakness and, Finding that our own puny strength is as a reed shaken in the wind, Creep back humbly to the God we have vainly dreamed we could do without. Peter was no better the next day. Aunt Olivia reported that his mother was broken-hearted. We did not again ask to be released from work. Instead, We went at it with feverish zeal. If we worked hard, There was less time for grief and grievous thoughts. We picked apples and dragged them to the granary, Doggedly. In the afternoon, Aunt Janet brought us a lunch of apple turnovers, But we could not eat them. Peter, As Felicity reminded us with a burst of tears, Had been so fond of apple turnovers. And oh, How good we were. How angelically and unnaturally good. But never was there such a band of kind, Sweet-tempered, Unselfish children in any orchard. Even Felicity and Dan, For once in their lives, Got through the day without any exchange of left-handed compliments. Cecily confided to me that she never meant to put her hair up in curlers on Saturday nights again because It was pretending. She was so anxious to repent of something, Sweet girl, And this was all she could think of. During the afternoon, Judy Pineau brought up a tear-blotted note from Sarah Ray. Sarah had not been allowed to visit the hill farm since Peter had developed measles. She was an unhappy little exile, And could only relieve her anguish of soul by daily letters to Cecily. Which the faithful and obliging Judy Pinot brought up for her. These epistles were as gushingly underlined as if Sarah had been a correspondent of early Victorian days. Cecily did not write back, Because Mrs Ray had decreed that no letters must be taken down from the hill farm lest they carry infection. Cecily had offered to bake every epistle thoroughly in the oven before sending it, But Mrs Ray was inexorable, And Cecily had to content herself by sending long, Verbal messages with Judy Pinot. My own dearest Cecily ran Sarah's letter. I have just heard the sad news about poor dear Peter. I can't describe my feelings. They are dreadful. I have been crying all the afternoon. I wish I could fly to you, But Ma will not let me. She is afraid I will catch the measles. But I would rather have the measles a dozen times over than be separated from you all like this. But I have felt, Ever since the Judgment Sunday, That I must obey Ma better than I used to do. If anything happens to Peter, And you are let see him before it happens, Give him my love and tell him how sorry I am. And that I hope we will all meet in a better world. Everything in school is about the same. The master is awful cross by spells. Jimmy Fruin walked home with Nellie Bowen last night from prayer meeting and her only 14. Don't you think it horrid, Beginning so young? You and me would never do anything like that till we were grown up, Would we? Willie Fraser looks so lonesome in school these days. I must stop for Ma says I waste far too much time writing letters. Tell Judy all the news for me. Your own true friend, Sarah Ray. P. S. Oh, I do hope Peter will get better. Ma is going to get me a new brown dress for the winter. S-R. When evening came, We went to our seats under the whispering, Sighing fir trees. It was a beautiful night. Clear, Windless, Frosty. Someone galloped down the road on horseback, Lustily singing a comic song. How dared he? We felt that it was an insult to our wretchedness. If Peter were going to. . . Going to Well. . . If anything happened to Peter. We felt so miserably sure that the music of life would be stilled for us forever. How could anyone in the world be happy when we were so unhappy? Presently, Aunt Olivia came down the long twilight arcade. Her bright hair was uncovered and she looked slim and queen-like in her light dress. We thought, Aren't Olivia very pretty then? Looking back from a mature standpoint, I realise that she must have been an unusually beautiful woman. And she looked her prettiest as she stood under the swaying boughs in the last faint light of the autumn dusk and smiled down at our woe-begone faces. Dear sorrowful little people, I bring you glad tidings of great joy, She said. The doctor has just been here and he finds Peter much better and thinks he will pull through after all. We gazed up at her in silence. For a few moments. When we had heard the news of Paddy's recovery, We had been noisy and jubilant. But we were very quiet now. We had been too near something dark and terrible. And menacing. And though it was thus suddenly removed, The chill and shadow of it were about us still. Presently, The story girl who had been standing up, Leaning against a tall fir, Slipped down to the ground in a huddled fashion and broke into a very passion of weeping. I had never heard anyone cry so. With dreadful, Rending sobs. I was used to hearing girls cry. It was as much Sarah Ray's normal state as any other. And even Felicity and Cecily availed themselves occasionally of the privilege of sex, But I had never heard any girl cry like this. It gave me the same unpleasant sensation which I had felt one time when I had seen my father cry. Oh. Don't sarah don't i said gently patting her convulsed shoulder you are a queer girl said felicity more tolerantly than usual however You never cried a speck when you thought Peter was going to die. And now when he's going to get better you cry like that? Sarah, Child, Come with me, " said Aunt Olivia, Bending over her. The story girl got up and went away with Aunt Olivia's arms around her. The sound of her crying died away under the furs. And with it seemed to go the dread and grief that had been our portion for hours. In the reaction, Our spirits rose with a bound. Ugh. Ain't it great that Peter's going to be all right? Said Dan, Springing up. I never was so glad of anything in my whole life, Declared Felicity in shameless rapture. Can't we send word somehow to Sarah Ray tonight? Asked Cecily the ever-thoughtful. She's feeling so bad and she'll have to feel that way till tomorrow if we can't. Let's all go down to the ray gate and holler to Judy Pinot till she comes out. Suggested Felix. Accordingly, We went and hollered with a right goodwill. We were much taken aback to find that Mrs Ray came to the gate instead of Judy. And rather sourly demanded what we were yelling about. When she heard our news, However, She had the decency to say she was glad and to promise she would convey the good tidings to Sarah, Who is already in bed where all children of her age should be, Added Mrs. Ray severely. We had no intention of going to bed for a good two hours yet. Instead, After devoutly thanking goodness that our grown-ups, In spite of some imperfections, Were not of the Mrs. Ray type, We betook ourselves to the granary, Lighted a huge lantern, Which Dan had made out of a turnip, And proceeded to devour all the apples we might have eaten through the day but had not. We were a blithe little crew, Sitting there in the light of our goblin lantern. We had, In very truth, Been given beauty for ashes and the oil of joy for mourning. Life was as a red rose once more. I'm going to make a big batch of patty pans. First thing in the morning, Said Felicity jubilantly. Isn't it queer? Last night I felt just like praying and tonight I feel just like cooking. We mustn't forget to thank God for making Peter better, Said Cecily as we finally went to the house. Do you suppose Peter wouldn't have got better anyway? " said Dan. Dan, What makes you ask such questions? Exclaimed Cecily in real distress. I don't know. So done. I just kind of. Come into my head like? But of course, I mean to thank God when I say my prayers tonight. That's only decent. Chapter 30, A compound letter. Once Peter was out of danger, He recovered rapidly, But he found his convalescence rather tedious. And Aunt Olivia suggested to us one day that we write a compound letter to amuse him. Until he could come to the window and talk to us from a safe distance. The idea appealed to us. And, The day being Saturday, And the apples all picked, We betook ourselves to the orchard to compose our epistles, Cecily having first sent word by a convenient caller to Sarah Ray that she, Too, Might have a letter ready. Later, I, Having at that time a mania for preserving all documents relating to our life in Carlisle, Copied those letters in the blank pages at the back of my dream book. Hence, I can reproduce them verbatim with the bouquet they have retained through all the long years since they were penned in that autumnal orchard on the hill with its fading leaves and frosted grasses and the mild, Delightsome melancholy of the late October day enfolding. Cecily's letter. Dear Peter, I am so very glad and thankful that you are going to get better. We were so afraid you would not last Tuesday and we felt dreadful, Even felicity. We all prayed for you. I think the others have stopped now, But I keep it up every night still for fear you might have a relapse. I don't know if that's is spelled right, I haven't the dictionary handy. And if I ask the others, Felicity will laugh at me, Though she cannot spell lots of words herself. I am saving some of the Honourable Mr Whelan's pears for you. I've got them hid where nobody can find them. There's only a dozen, Because Dan airtored the rest, But I guess you will like them. We have got all the apples picked and are all ready to take the measles now if we have to, But I hope we won't. If we have to, Though, I'd rather catch them from you than from anyone else, Because we are acquainted with you. If I do take the measles and anything happens to me, Felicity is to have my cherry vase. I'd rather give it to the story girl, But Dan says it ought to be kept in the family, Even if Felicity is a crank. I haven't anything else valuable since I gave Sarah Ray my forget-me-not jug. But if you would like anything I've got, Let me know and I'll leave instructions for you to have it. The story girl has told us some splendid stories lately. I wish I was clever like her. Ma says it doesn't matter if you're not clever as long as you are good. But I'm not even very good. I think this is all my news, Except that I want to tell you how much we all think of you, Peter. When we heard you were sick, We all said nice things about you. But we were afraid it was too late. And I said. . . If you got better, I'd tell you. It is easier to write it than to tell it out to your face. We think you are smart and polite and obliging and a great worker and a gentleman. Your true friend, Cecily King. P. S. If you answer my letter, Don't say anything about the pairs, Because I don't want Dan to find out there's any left. CK. Felicity's letter. Dear Peter, Aunt Olivia says for us all to write a compound letter to cheer you up. We are all awful glad you are getting better. It gave us an awful scare when we heard you were going to die. But you will soon be alright and able to get out again. Be careful you don't catch cold. I'm going to bake some nice things for you and send them over. Now that the doctor says you can eat them. And I'll send you my rosebud plate to eat off of. I'm only lending it, You know, Not giving it. I let very few people use it because it is my greatest treasure. Mind you don't break it. Aunt Olivia must always wash it. Not your mother. I do hope the rest of us won't catch the measles. It must look horrid to have red spots all over your face. We all feel pretty well yet. The story girl says as many queer things as ever. Felix thinks he is getting thin. But he is fatter than ever. And no wonder, With all the apples he eats. He has given up trying to eat the bitter apples at last. Beverly has grown half an inch since July by the mark on the hall door and he is awful pleased about it. I told him I guessed the magic seed was taking effect at last and he got mad. He never gets mad at anything the story girl says. And yet she is so sarcastic by times. Dan is pretty hard to get along with as usual, But I try to bear patiently with him. Cecily as well and says she isn't going to curl her hair anymore. She is so conscientious. I am glad my hair curls of itself. Ain't you? We haven't seen Sarah Ray since you got sick. She is awful lonesome. And Judy says she cries nearly all the time. But that is nothing new. I'm awful sorry for Sarah, But I'm glad I'm not her. She's going to write you a letter too. You'll let me see what she puts in it, Won't you? You'd better take some Mexican tea now. It's a great blood purifier. I am going to get a lovely dark blue dress for the winter. It is ever so much prettier than Sarah Ray's brown one. Sarah Ray's mother has no taste. The story girl's father is sending her a new red dress and a red velvet cap from Paris. She is so fond of red. I can't bear it. It looks so. . . Common. Mother says I can get a velvet hood too. Cecily says she doesn't believe it's right to wear velvet when it's so expensive and the heathen are crying for the gospel. She got that idea from a Sunday school paper. But I am going to get my hood all the same. Well, Peter, I have no more news so I will close for this time. Hoping you will soon be quite well. I remain your sincerely, Felicity King. P. S. The story girl peeked over my shoulder and says I ought to have signed it yours affectionately. But I know better because The Family Guide has told lots of times how you should sign yourself when you are writing to a young man who is only a friend. FK. Felix's letter. Dear Peter, I am awful glad you are getting better. We all felt bad when we thought you wouldn't. But I felt worse than the others because we hadn't been on very good terms lately. I had said mean things about you. I'm sorry. And Peter, You can pray for anything you like, And I won't ever object again. I'm glad Uncle Alec interfered and stopped the fight. If I had licked you and you had died of the measles. It would have been a dreadful thing. We have all the apples in and haven't much to do just now and we are having lots of fun, But we wish you were here to join in. I'm a lot thinner than I was. I guess working so hard picking apples is a good thing to make you thin. The girls are all well. Felicity puts on as many airs as ever, But she makes great things to eat. I have had some splendid dreams since we gave up writing them down. That is always the way. We ain't going to school till we're sure we are not going to have the measles. This is all I can think of so I will draw to a close. Remember you can pray for anything you like. Felix King Sarah Ray's letter. Dear Peter, I never wrote to a boy before, So please excuse all mistakes. I am so glad you are getting better. We were so afraid You were going to die. I cried all night about it. But now that you are out of danger, Would you tell me what it really feels like to think you are going to die? Does it feel queer? Were you very badly frightened? Ma won't let me go up the hill at all now. I would die if it was not for Judy Pinot. The French names are so hard to spell. Judy is very obliging and I feel that she sympathises with me. In my lonely hours. I read my dream book and Cecily's old letters and they are such a comfort to me. I have been reading one of the school library books too. It's pretty good, But I wish they had got more love stories because they are so exciting. But the master would not let them. If you had died, Peter. And your father had heard it. Wouldn't he have felt dreadful? We are having beautiful weather. And the scenery is fine since the leaves turned. I think there is nothing so pretty as nature after all. I hope all danger from the measles will soon be over and we can all meet again at the home on the hill. Until then, Farewell, Your true friend, Sarah Ray. P. S. Don't let Felicity see this letter. S. R. Dan's letter. Dear old Pete. Awful glad you cheated the doctor. I thought you weren't the kind to turn up your toes so easy. You should have heard the girls crying. They're all getting their winter finery now and the talk about it would make you sick. The story girl is getting hers from Paris and Felicity is awful jealous, Though she pretends she isn't. I can see through her. Kit Marr was up here Thursday to see the girls. She's had the measles, So she isn't scared. She is a great girl to laugh. I like a girl that laughs, Don't you? We had a call from Peg Bowen yesterday. You should have seen the story girl hustling Pat out of the way. For all she says, She don't believe he was bewitched. Peg had your rheumatism ring on and the story girl's blue beads and Sarah Ray's lace sewed across the front of her dress. She wanted some tobacco and some pickles. Ma gave her some pickles but said we didn't have no tobacco. And Peg went off mad. But I guess she wouldn't bewitch anything on account of the pickles. I ain't any hand to write letters, So I guess I'll stop. Hope you'll be out soon, Dan. The Story Girls letter. Dear Peter, Oh how glad I am that you are getting better. Those days, When we thought you wouldn't, Were the hardest of my whole life. It seemed too dreadful to be true, That perhaps you would die. And then when we heard you were going to get better, That seemed too good to be true. Oh Peter, Hurry up and get well. For we are having such good times and we miss you so much. I have coaxed Uncle Alec not to burn his potato stalks till you are well because I remember how you always liked to see the potato stalks burn. Uncle Alec consented, Though Aunt Janet said it was high time they were burned. Uncle Roger burned his last night and it was such fun. Pat is splendid. He has never had a sick spell since that bad one. I would send him over to be company for you but Aunt Janet says no because. . . He might carry the measles back. I don't see how he could, But we must obey Aunt Janet. She is very good to us all. But I know she does not approve of me. She says, I'm my father's own child. I know that doesn't mean anything complimentary, Because she looked so queer when she saw that I had heard her. But I don't care. I'm glad I'm like father. I had a splendid letter from him this week, With the darlingest pictures in it. He is painting a new picture, Which is going to make him famous. I wonder what Aunt Janet will say then. Do you know, Peter, Yesterday I thought I saw the family ghost at last. I was coming through the gap in the hedge and I saw somebody in blue standing under Uncle Alec's tree. How my heart beat. My hair should have stood up on end with terror, But it didn't. I fell to see and it was lying down quite flat, But it was only a visitor. After all, I don't know whether I was glad or disappointed. I don't think it would be a pleasant experience to see the ghost. But after I had seen it. Think what a heroine I would be. Oh, Peter. What do you think? I have got acquainted with the awkward man at last. I never thought it would be so easy. Yesterday, Aunt Olivia wanted some ferns, So I went back to the maple woods to get them for her, And I found some lovely ones by the spring. And while I was sitting there, Looking into the spring, Who should come along but the awkward man himself. He sat right down beside me and began to talk. I never was so surprised in my life. We had a very interesting talk. And I told him two of my best stories and a great many of my secrets into the bargain. They may say what they like but he was not one bit shy or awkward and he has beautiful eyes. He did not tell me any of his secrets, But I believe he will someday. Of course, I never said a word about his Alice room, But I gave him a hint about his little brown book. I said I loved poetry and often felt like writing it. And then I said, Do you ever feel like that, Mr. Dale? He said, Yes, He sometimes felt that way. But he did not mention the brown book. I thought he might have. But after all, I don't like people who tell you everything the first time you meet them. Like Sarah Rae. When he went away, He said, I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again, Just as seriously and politely as if I was a grown up young lady. I am sure he could never have said it if I had been really grown up. I told him it was likely he would and that he wasn't to mind if I had a longer skirt on next time because I'd be just the same person. I told the children a beautiful new fairy story today. I made them go to the spruce wood to hear it. A spruce wood is the proper place to tell fairy stories in. Felicity says she can't see that it makes any difference where you tell them, But oh, It does. I wish you had been there to hear it too. But when you are well, I will tell it over again for you. I am going to call the southern wood. Apple ringy after this. Beverley says that is what they call it in Scotland. And I think it sounds so much more poetical than. . . Southern wood. Felicity says the right name is Boys Love. But I think that sounds silly. Oh, Peter. Shadows are such pretty things. The orchard is full of them this very minute. Sometimes they are so still you would think them asleep. Then they go laughing and skipping. Outside, In the oat field, They are always chasing each other. They are the wild shadows. The shadows in the orchard are the tame shadows. Everything seems to be rather tired, Growing. Except the spruces and chrysanthemums in Aunt Olivia's garden. The sunshine is so thick. And yellow and lazy and the crickets sing all day long. The birds are nearly all gone and most of the maple leaves have fallen. Just to make you laugh, I'll write you a little story I heard Uncle Alec telling last night. It was about Elder Fruin's grandfather taking a pair of rope reins to lead a piano home. Everybody laughed, Except Aunt Janet. Old Mr. Fruin was her grandfather too. And she wouldn't laugh. One day, When old Mr. Fruin was a young man of 18, His father came home and said, Sandy, I bought a piano at Simon Ward's sale today. Your to go tomorrow and bring it home. So next day, Sandy started off on horseback with a pair of rope reins to lead the piano home. He thought it was some kind of livestock. And then Uncle Roger told about old Mark Ward, Who got up to make a speech at a church missionary social when he was drunk. Of course, He didn't get drunk at the social. He went there that way. And this was his speech. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Chairman, I can't express my thoughts on this grand subject of missions. It's in this. Poor human critter. Patching himself on the breast. But. . . He can't get it out. I'll tell you these stories when you get well. I can tell them ever so much better than I can write them. I know Felicity is wondering why I'm writing such a long letter, So. . . Perhaps I'd better stop. If your mother reads it to you, There is a good deal of it she may not understand, But I think your Aunt Jane would. I remain your very affectionate friend, Sarah Stans. I did not keep a copy of my own letter. And I have forgotten everything that was in it, Except the first sentence in which I told Peter I was awful glad he was getting better. And Peter's delight on receiving our letters knew no bounds. He insisted on answering them and his letter, Painstakingly disinfected, Was duly delivered to us. Aunt Olivia had written it at his dictation. Which was a gain as far as spelling and punctuation went, But Peter's individuality seemed merged and lost in Aunt Olivia's big, Dashing script. Not until the story girl read the letter to us in the granary by Jack O'Lanternlight, In a mimicry of Peter's very voice, Did we savour the real bouquet of it. Peter's letter. See ya. Everybody. But especially Felicity. I was awful glad to get your letters. It makes you real important to be sick, But the time seems awful long when you're getting better. Your letters were all great, But I liked Felicity's best. And next to hers, The story girls. Felicity, It will be awful good of you to send me things to eat and the rosebud plate. I'll be awful careful of it. I hope you won't catch the measles. For they are not nice. Especially when they strike in. But you would look alright, Even if you did have red spots on your face. I would like to try the Mexican tea because you want me to. But mother says no. She doesn't believe in it. And Burton's bitters are a great deal healthier. If I was you, I would get the velveted all right. The heathen live in warm countries, So. . . They don't want Uds. I'm glad you're still praying for me, Cecily. For you can't trust the measles. And I'm glad you're keeping, You know what, For me. I don't believe anything will happen to you if you do take the measles, But if anything does, I'd like that little red book of yours, The safe compass, Just to remember you by. It's such a good book to read on Sundays. It's interesting and religious too. So is the Bible. I hadn't quite finished the Bible before I took the measles, But Ma is reading the last chapters to me. There's an awful lot in that book. I can't understand the whole of it, Since I'm only a hired boy, But. . . Some parts are real easy. I'm awful glad you have such a good opinion of me. I don't deserve it. But after this, I'll try to. I can't tell you how I feel about all your kindness. I'm like the fella the story girl wrote about who couldn't get it out. I have the picture the story girl gave me for my sermon on the wall at the foot of my bed. I like to look at it. It looks so much like Aunt Jane. Felix, I've given up praying that I'd be the only one to eat the bitter apples. And I'll never pray for anything like that again. It was an horrid, Mean prayer. I didn't know it then, But after the measles struck in, I found out it was. Aunt Jane wouldn't have liked it. After this, I'm going to pray prayers I needn't be ashamed of. Sarah Ray, I don't know what it feels like to be going to die because I didn't know I was going to die until I got better. Mother says I was loony most of the time after they struck in. It was just because they struck in, I was loony. I ain't loony naturally, Felicity. I will do what you asked in your postscript, Sarah. Although, It will be hard. I'm glad Peg Bowen didn't catch you, Dan. Maybe she bewitched me. That night we were at her place and that's why the measles struck in. I'm awful glad Mr. King's gonna leave the potato stalks until I get well. And I'm obliged to the story girl for coaxing him. I guess she will find out about Alice yet. There were some parts of her letter I couldn't see through, But when the measles strike in, They leave you stupid for a spell. Anyhow, It was a fine letter and they were all fine. And I'm awful glad I have so many nice friends, Even if I am only a hired boy. Perhaps I'd never have found it out if the measles hadn't struck in. So I'm glad they did, But I hope they never will again. Your obedient servant, Peter Craig. Chapter 31 On the Edge of Light and Dark We celebrated the November day when Peter was permitted to rejoin us by a picnic in the orchard. Sarah Ray was also allowed to come under protest and her joy over being among us once more was almost pathetic. She and Cecily cried in one another's arms as if they had been parted for years. We had a beautiful day for our picnic. November dreamed that it was May. The air was soft and mellow, With pale aerial mists in the valleys and over the leafless beaches on the western hill. The seer stubble fields brooded in glamour, And the sky was pearly blue. The leaves were still thick on the apple trees, Though they were russet-hued, And the aftergrowth of grass was richly green, Unharmed as yet by the nipping frosts of previous nights. The wind made a sweet, Drowsy murmur in the boughs, As of bees among apple blossoms. Is just like spring, Isn't it? " asked Felicity. The story girl shook her head. No, Not quite. It looks like spring, But it isn't spring. It's as if everything was resting, Getting ready to sleep. In spring they're getting ready to grow. Can't you feel the difference? I think it's just like spring, Insisted Felicity. In the sun-sweet place before the pulpit stone, We boys had put up a board table. Aunt Janet allowed us to cover it with an old tablecloth. The one places in which the girls artfully concealed with frost-whitened ferns. We had the kitchen dishes and the table was gaily decorated with Cecily's three scarlet geraniums and maple leaves in the cherry vase. As for the Vians, They were fit for the gods on high Olympus. Felicity had spent the whole previous day and the forenoon of the picnic day in concocting them. Her crowning achievement was a rich little plum cake, On the white frosting of which the words, Welcome back, Were left. In pink candies. This was put before Peter's place and almost overcame him. To think. That you'd go to so much trouble. For me. He said. With a glance of adoring gratitude at Felicity. Felicity got all the gratitude, Although the story girl had originated the idea and seeded the raisins and beaten the eggs, While Cecily had trudged all the way to Mrs Jameson's little shop below the church to buy the pink candies, But That is the way of the world. We ought to have grace, Said Felicity as we sat down at the festal board. Will anyone say it? She looked at me, But I blushed to the roots of my hair and shook my head sheepishly. An awkward pause ensued. It looked as if we would have to proceed without grace. When Felix suddenly shut his eyes, Bent his head and said, A very good grace. Without any appearance of embarrassment. We looked at him when it was over with an increase of respect. Where on earth did you learn that, Felix? I asked. It's the grace Uncle Alex says at every meal. Answered Felix. We felt rather ashamed of ourselves. Was it possible that we had paid so little attention to Uncle Alex Grace that We did not recognise it when we heard it on other lips. Now, Said Felicity jubilantly, Let's eat everything up. In truth, It was a merry little feast. We had gone without our dinners in order to save our appetites, And we did ample justice to Felicity's good things. Paddy sat on the pulpit stone and watched us with great yellow eyes, Knowing that tidbits would come his way later on. Many witty things were said, Or at least we thought them witty, And uproarious was the laughter. Never had the old king orchard known a blither merrymaking orchard. Or lighter hearts. The picnic over, We played games until the early falling dusk, And then we went with Uncle Alec to the back field to burn the potato stalks, The crowning delight of the day. The stalks were in heaps all over the field, And we were allowed the privilege of setting fire to them. Was glorious. In a few minutes the field was alight with blazing bonfires, Over which rolled great pungent clouds of smoke. From pile to pile we ran, Shrieking with delight, To poke each up with a long stick and watch the gush of rose-red sparks stream off into the night. In what a whirl of smoke and firelight and wild fantastic hurtling shadows we were. When we grew tired of our sport, We went to the windward side of the field and perched ourselves on the high pole fence that skirted a dark spruce wood full of strange furtive sounds. Over us was a great dark sky, Blossoming with silver stars, And all around lay dusky, Mysterious reaches of meadow and wood in the soft, Impurpled night. Away to the east, A shimmering silveryness beneath a palace of aerial cloud, Foretokened moonrise. But directly before us, The potato field, With its wreathing smoke and sullen flames, The gigantic shadow of Uncle Alec crossing and re-crossing it, Reminded us of Peter's famous description of the bad place. And probably suggested the story girl's remark. I know a story, She said, Infusing just the right shade of weirdness into her voice, About a man who saw the devil. Now, What's the matter, Felicity? I can never get used to the way you mention the. . . That name, " complained Felicity. To hear you speak of the old Scratch, Anyone would think he was just a common person. Never mind. Tell us the story, I said, Curiously. It is about Mrs John Martin's uncle at Markdale, Said the story girl. I heard Uncle Roger telling it the other night. He didn't know I was sitting on the cellar hatch outside the window, Or I don't suppose he would have told it. Mrs Martin's uncle's name was William Cohen. And he has been dead for 20 years but 60 years ago he was a young man and a very wild, Wicked young man. He did everything bad he could think of and never went to church and he laughs. At everything religious, Even the devil. He didn't believe. There was a devil. At all. One beautiful summer Sunday evening, His mother pleaded with him to go to church with her. But he would not. He told her that he was going fishing instead. And when church time came, He swaggered past the church with his fishing rod over his shoulder, Singing a godless song. Halfway between the church and the harbour, There was a thick spruce wood. And the path run through it. When William Cohen was halfway through it. Something came out of the wood and walked beside him. I have never heard anything more horribly suggestive than that innocent word, Something, As enunciated by the story girl. I felt Cecily's hand, Icy cold, Clutching mine. What was it like? Whispered Felix, Curiosity getting the better of his terror. It was tall and black and hairy, Said the story girl. Her eyes glowing with uncanny intensity in the red glare of the fires, And it lifted one great hairy hand with claws on the end of it and clapped William Cohen, First on one shoulder and then on the other, And said, Good sport. To you, Brother. William Cohen gave a horrible scream and fell on his face right there in the wood. Some of the men around the church door heard the scream and they rushed down to the wood. They saw nothing but William Cohen lying like a dead man on the path. They took him up and carried him home. And when they undressed him to put him to bed, There on each shoulder was the mark of a big hand burned into the flesh. It was weeks before the burns healed, And the scars never went away. Always, As long as William Cohen lived, He carried on his shoulders the Prince of the Devil's Hand. I really do not know how we should ever have got home had we been left to our own devices. We were cold with fright. How could we turn our backs on the eerie spruce wood out of which something might pop at any moment? How cross those long shadowy fields between us and our roof tree? How venture through the darkly mysterious bracken hollow? Fortunately, Uncle Alec came along at this crisis and said he thought we'd better come home now since the fires were nearly out. We slid down from the fence and started, Taking care to keep close together and in front of Uncle Alec. I don't believe a word of that yarn, Said Dan, Trying to speak with his usual incredulity. I don't see how you can help believing it, " said Cecily. It isn't as if it was something we'd read of or that happened far away. It happened just down at Marktale. And I've seen that very spruce wood myself. Oh, I suppose William Cohen got a fright of some kind, Conceded Dan, But I don't believe he saw the devil. Old Mr Morrison, At Lower Markdale, Was one of the men who undressed him. And he remembers seeing the marks, " said the story girl triumphantly. How did William Cohen behave afterwards? I asked. He was a changed man, Said the story girl solemnly. Too much changed. He never was known to laugh again, Or even smile. He became a very religious man, Which was a good thing, But he was dreadfully gloomy and thought everything pleasant sinful. He wouldn't even eat any more than was actually necessary to keep him alive. Uncle Roger says that if he had been a Roman Catholic, He would have become a monk. But as he was a Presbyterian. All he could do was to turn into a crank. Yes, But your uncle Roger was never clapped on the shoulder and called brother by the devil, Said Peter. If he had, He mightn't have been so precious jolly afterwards himself. I do wish to goodness, Said Felicity in exasperation, That you'd stop talking of the. . . The. . . Of such subjects in the dark. I'm so scared now that. . . I keep thinking father's steps behind us are some things. Just think. My own father. The story girl slipped her arm through Felicity's. Never mind, She said soothingly. I'll tell you another story. Such a beautiful story that you'll forget all about the devil. She told us one of Hans Anderson's most exquisite tales, And the magic of her voice charmed away all our fear, So that when we reached the Bracken Hollow, A lake of shadow surrounded by the silver shore of moonlit fields, We all went through it without a thought of his satanic majesty. At all. And beyond us, On the hill, The home light was glowing from the farmhouse window, Like a beacon of old loves. Chapter 32, The opening of the blue chest. November wakened from her dream of May in a bad temper. The day after the picnic, A cold autumn rain set in, And we got up to find our world a drenched, Wind-rhythm place, With sodden fields and dour skies. The rain was weeping on the roof as if it were shedding the tears of old sorrows. The willow by the gate tossed its gaunt branches wildly, As if it were some passionate spectral thing wringing its fleshless hands in agony. The orchard was haggard and uncomely, Nothing seemed the same. Except the staunch, Trusty old spruces. It was Friday, But we were not to begin going to school again until Monday, So we spent the day in the granary, Sorting apples and hearing tales. In the evening, The rain ceased. The wind came around to the northwest, Freezing suddenly, And a chilly yellow sunset beyond the dark hills seemed to herald a brighter morrow. Felicity and the Story Girl and I walked down to the post office for the mail, Along a road where fallen leaves went eddying fitfully up and down before us in weird uncanny dances of their own. The evening was full of eerie sounds, The creaking of fir boughs, The whistle of the wind in the treetops, The vibrations of strips of dried bark on the rail fences. But we carried summer and sunshine in our hearts, And the bleak unloveliness of the outer world only intensified our inner rage. Gradients. Felicity wore her new velvet hood with a coquettish little collar of white fur about her neck. Her golden curls framed her lovely face, And the wind stung the pink of her cheeks to crimson. On my left hand walked the story girl, Her red cap on her jaunty brown head. She scattered her words along the path like the pearls and diamonds of the old fairy tale. I remember that I strutted along quite insufferably, For we met several of the Carlisle boys and I felt that I was an exceptionally lucky fellow to have such beauty on one side and such charm on the other. There was one of father's thin letters for Felix, A fat foreign letter for the story girl addressed in her father's minute handwriting, A drop letter for Cecily from some school friend with in haste written across the corner, And a letter for Aunt Janet postmarked Montreal. I can't think who that is from, Said Felicity. Nobody in Montreal ever writes to mother. Cecily's letter is from M. Fruin. She always puts in haste on her letters, No matter what is in them. When we reached home, Aunt Janet opened and read her Montreal letter. Then she laid it down and looked about her in astonishment. Wow. Did ever. An immortal. She said. What in the world is the matter? Said Uncle Alex. This letter. Is from James Ward's wife in Montreal, Said Aunt Janet solemnly. Rachel Ward. Is dead. And she told James's wife to write to me and tell me to open. The old blue chest. Hurrah, Shouted Dan. Donald King, Said his mother severely. Rachel Ward was your relation and she is dead. What do you mean by such behaviour? I never was acquainted with her, Said Dan sulkily. And I wasn't hurrying because she's dead. I hurrahed because that blue chest is to be opened at last. So. . . Poor Rachel is gone, Said Uncle Alec. She must have been an old woman, 75 I suppose. I remember her as a fine, Blooming young woman. Well, Well, And so the old chest is to be opened at last. What is to be done with its contents. Rachel left instructions about them, Answered Aunt Janet, Referring to the letter. The wedding dress and veil and letters are to be burned. There are two jugs in it which are to be sent to James's wife. The rest of the things are to be given around among the connection. Each member's is to have one to remember her by. Oh, Can't we open it right away this very night? Said Felicity eagerly. No indeed. Aunt Janet folded up the letter decidedly. That chest has been locked up for 50 years. And it'll stand being locked up one more night. You children wouldn't sleep a wink tonight if we opened it now. You'd go wild with excitement. I'm sure I won't sleep anyhow, " said Felicity. Well. . . At least you'll. . . Open it the first thing in the morning, Won't you? No. I'll do nothing of the sort, Was Aunt Janet's pitiless decree. I want to get the work out of the way first. And Roger and Olivia will want to be here too. We'll say 10 o'clock tomorrow for noon. That sixteen whole hours yet? " sighed Felicity. I'm going right over to tell the story, Gal, " said Cecily. Won't she be excited! We were all excited. We spent the evening speculating on the possible contents of the chest. And Cecily dreamed miserably that night that the moths had eaten everything in it. The morning dawned on a beautiful world. A very slight fall of snow had come in the night, Just enough to look like a filmy veil of lace flung over the dark evergreens and the hard frozen ground. A new blossom time seemed to have revisited the orchard. The spruce wood behind the house appeared to be woven out of enchantment. There is nothing more beautiful than a thickly growing wood of firs, Lightly powdered with new fallen snow. As the sun remained hidden by grey clouds, This fairy beauty lasted all day. The story girl came over early in the morning, And Sarah Ray, To whom faithful Cecily had sent word, Was also on hand. Felicity did not approve of this. Sarah Ray isn't any relation to our family. She scolded to Cecily and she has no right to be present. She's a particular friend of mine, " said Cecily with dignity. We have her in everything, And it would hurt her feelings dreadfully to be left out of this. Peter is no relation either, But he is going to be here when we open it. So why shouldn't Sarah? Peter ain't a member of the family yet, But maybe he will be someday, Eh Felicity, Said Dan. You're awful smart, Aren't you, Dan King? " said Felicity, Reddening. Perhaps you'd like to send for Kitty Marr, Too? Though she does laugh at your big mouth. It seems as if ten o'clock would never come, Sighed the story girl. The work is all done, And Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger are here. And the chest might just as well be opened right away. Mother said ten o'clock. And she'll stick to it, Said Felicity crossly. It's only nine now. Let us put the clock on half an hour, Said the story girl. The clock in the hall isn't going, So no one will know the difference. We all looked at each other. I wouldn't dare, Said Felicity irresolutely. Oh, If that's all, I'll do it, Said the story girl. When ten o'clock struck, Aunt Janet came into the kitchen, Remarking innocently that It hadn't seemed any time since nine. We must have looked horribly guilty, But none of the grown-ups suspected anything. Uncle Alec brought in the axe and pried off the cover of the old blue chest while everybody stood around in silence. Then came the unpacking. It was certainly an interesting performance. Aunt Janet and Aunt Olivia took everything out and laid it on the kitchen table. We children were forbidden to touch anything. But fortunately, We were not forbidden the use of our eyes and tongues. There are the pink and gold vases Grandmother King gave her, Said Felicity, As Aunt Olivia unwrapped from their tissue-paper swathings a pair of slender, Old-fashioned, Twisted vases of pink glass, Over which little gold leaves were scattered. Aren't they handsome? Oh, Exclaimed Cecily in delight, There's the china fruit basket with the apple on the handle. Doesn't it look real? I've thought so much about it. Oh mother please let me hold it for a minute i'll be as careful as careful there comes the china set grandfather king gave her said the story girl wistfully Oh, It makes me feel sad. Think of all the hopes that Rachel Ward must have put away in this chest with all her pretty things. Following these came a quaint little candlestick of blue china and the two jugs which were to be sent to James's wife. They are handsome, Said Aunt Janet rather enviously. They must be a hundred years old. Aunt Sarah Ward gave them to Rachel and she had them for at least 50 years. I should have thought one would have been enough for James's wife. But of course, We must do just as Rachel wished. I declare, Here's a dozen tin patty pans. Tin patty pans aren't very romantic, Said the story girl discontentedly. I notice that you are as fond as anyone of what is baked in them. Said Aunt Janet. I've heard of those patty pans. An old servant Grandmother King had gave them to Rachel. Now we're coming to the linen. That was Uncle Edward Ward's present. How yellow it has grown. We children were not greatly interested in the sheets and tablecloths and pillowcases, Which now came out of the capacious depths of the old blue chest. But Aunt Olivia was quite enraptured over them. What sewing, She said. Look, Janet, You'd almost need a magnifying glass to see the stitches, And the dear old-fashioned pillow slips with buttons on them. Here are a dozen handkerchiefs, Said Aunt Janet. Look at the initial in the corner of each. Rachel learned that stitch from a nun in Montreal. It looks as if it was woven into the material. Here are her quilts, Said Aunt Olivia. Yes. There is the blue and white counterpane. The ward gave her, And the Rising Sun quilt her Aunt Nancy made for her, And the braided rug. The colours are not faded one bit. I want that rug, Janet. Underneath the linen were Rachel Ward's wedding clothes. The excitement of the girls waxed red hot over these. There was a paisley shawl in the wrappings in which it had come from the store, And a wide scarf of some yellowed lace. There was the embroidered petticoat which had cost Felicity such painful blushes, And a dozen beautifully worked sets of the fine muslin underpants. Sleeves, Which had been the fashion in Rachel Ward's youth. This was to have been her appearing-out dress, Said Aunt Olivia, Lifting out a shot green silk. It is all cut to pieces but what a pretty soft shade it was. Look at the skirt, Janet. How many yards must it measure around? Hoopskirts were in then, Said Aunt Janet. I. . . I don't see her wedding hat here. I was always told that she packed it away too. So was I. But she couldn't have. It certainly isn't here. I have heard that the white plume on it cost a small fortune. Here is her black silk mantle. It seems like sacrilege to meddle with these clothes. Don't be foolish, Olivia. They must be unpacked at least. And they must all be burned since they have cut so badly. This purple cloth dress is quite good, However. It can be made over nicely. And it would become you very well, Olivia. No, Thank you, Said Aunt Olivia with a little shudder. I should feel like a ghost. Make it over for yourself, Janet. Well, I will if you don't want it. I'm not troubled with fancies. That seems to be all, Except this box. I suppose the wedding dress is in it. Oh, Breathed the girls, Crowding about Aunt Olivia as she lifted out the box and cut the cord around it. Inside was lying a dress of soft silk. That had once been white. But was now yellowed with age, And enfolding it like a mist, A long white bridal veil. Redolent with some strange old-time perfume that had kept its sweetness through all the years. Poor Rachel Ward. Said Aunt Olivia softly. Here is her point lace handkerchief. She made it herself. It is like a spider's web. Here are the letters Will Montagu wrote her. And here, She said, Taking up a crimson velvet case with a tarnished gilt clasp, Are their photographs. His. And hers. We looked eagerly at the daguerreotypes in the old case. Why? Rachel Ward wasn't a bit pretty. Exclaimed the story-go in poignant disappointment. No. Rachel ward was not pretty. That had to be admitted. The picture showed a fresh young face with strongly marked irregular features, Large black eyes and black curls hanging around the shoulders in old time style. Rachel wasn't pretty, Said Uncle Alec, But she had a lovely colour. And a beautiful smile. She looks far too sober in that picture. She has a beautiful neck and bust, " said Aunt Olivia critically. Anyhow, Will Montague was really handsome, Said the story girl. A handsome, Rogue, Growled Uncle Alec. I never liked him. I was only a little chap of ten, But I saw through him. Rachel Ward was far too good for him. We would dearly have liked to get a peep into the letters too. But Aunt Olivia would not allow that. They must be burned unread, She declared. She took the wedding dress and veil, The picture case, And the letters, Away with her. The rest of the things were put back into the chest, Pending their ultimate distribution. Aunt Janet gave each of us boys a handkerchief. The story girl got the blue candlestick and Felicity and Cecily each got a pink and gold vase. Even Sarah Ray was made happy by the gift of a little china plate with a loudly coloured picture of Moses and Aaron before Pharaoh in the middle of it. Moses wore a scarlet cloak while Aaron disported himself in bright blue. Pharaoh was arrayed in yellow. The plate had a scalloped border with a wreath of green leaves around it. I shall never use it to eat off, Said Sarah rapturously. I'll put it up on the Parliamental piece I don't see much use in having a plate just for ornament, " said Felicity. It's nice to have something interesting to look at. Retorted Sarah. Who felt that the soul must have food as well as the body. I'm going to get a candle for my candlestick and use it every night to go to bed with, " said the story girl. And I'll never light it without thinking of poor Rachel Ward. But I do wish she had been pretty. Well said felicity with a glance at the clock It's all over, And it has been very interesting, But that clock has got to be put back to the right time sometime through the day. I don't want bedtime coming a whole half hour before it ought to. In the afternoon, When Aunt Janet was over at Uncle Roger's, Seeing him and Aunt Olivia off to town, The clock was righted. The Story Girl and Peter came over to stay all night with us. And we made taffy in the kitchen, Which the grown-ups kindly gave over to us for that purpose. Of course, It was very interesting to see the old chest unpacked, Said the story girl as she stirred the contents of a saucepan vigorously. But now that it is over, I believe. I'm sorry. That it is opened. It isn't mysterious any longer. We know all about it now. And we can never imagine what things are in it anymore. It's better to know than to imagine, Said Felicity. Oh, No, It isn't, Said the story girl quickly. When you know things, You have to go by facts. But when you just dream about things, There's nothing to hold you down. You're letting the taffy scorch, And that's a fact you'd better go by, " said Felicity, Sniffing. Haven't you got a nose? When we went to bed, That wonderful white enchantress, The moon, Was making an elf land of the snow-misted world outside. From where I lay, I could see the sharp tops of the spruces against the silvery sky. The frost was abroad, And the winds were still, And the land lay in glamour. Across the hall, The story girl was telling Felicity and Cecily the old, Old tale of Argive Helen and Evil-Hearted Paris. But that's a bad story, Said Felicity when the tale was ended. She left her husband and run away with another man. I suppose it was bad four thousand years ago, Admitted the story girl. But by this time, The bad must have all gone out of it. It's only the good that could last so long. Our summer was over. It had been a beautiful one. We had known the sweetness of common joys, The delight of dawns, The dream and glamour of noontides, The long purple peace of carefree nights. We had had the pleasure of birdsong, Of silver rain on greening fields, Of storm among the trees, Of blossoming meadows, And of the converse of whispering leaves. We had had brotherhood with wind and star, With books and tales, And hearth fires of autumn. Ours had been the little loving tasks of everyday blithe companionship, Shared thoughts and adventuring. Rich we were in the memory of those opulent months that had gone from us. Richer than we then knew or suspected. And before us was the dream. Of spring. It is always safe to dream of spring, For it is sure to come. And if it be not just as we have pictured it, It will be. Infinitely. Sweeter. The end.