The Story Girl | 8.5+ Hours Sleep | Complete, Part 1

"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!

Transcript

Hello there. Thank you so much for joining me for this reading of The Story Girl, Which is a novel from 1911 by the Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery, Who's best known for her book Anne of Green Gables. So this story follows the adventures of a group of young cousins and their friends who are all in a rural community on Prince Edward Island in Canada. And before we get into the story here. Let's just take a moment. To have a nice, Deep, Exhale. Letting go of the day. Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing with us into this moment. For right now, There's nowhere else that we have to be and nothing else that we have to be doing. So we can just relax, Get ourselves comfortable, And enjoy the beautiful story of the Story Girl. Chapter 1 The Home of Our Fathers I do like a road, Because you can be always wondering what is at the end of it. The Story Girl said that once upon a time. Felix and I, On the May morning when we left Toronto for Prince Edward Island, Had not then heard her say it, And indeed were but barely aware of the existence of such a person as the Story Girl. We did not know her at all under that name. We knew only that a cousin, Sarah Stanley, Whose mother, Our Aunt Felicity, Was dead, Was living down on the island with Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia King. On a farm adjoining the Old King homestead in Carlisle. We supposed we should get acquainted with her when we reached there. And we had an idea from Aunt Olivia's letters to father that she would be quite a jolly creature. Further than that, We did not think about her. We were more interested in Felicity and Cecily and Dan, Who lived on the homestead and would therefore be our roofmates for a season. But the spirit of the story girl's yet unuttered remark was thrilling in our hearts that morning. As the train pulled out of Toronto, We were faring forth on a long road. And though we had some idea what would be at the end of it, There was enough glamour of the unknown about it to lend a wonderful charm to our speculations concerning it. We were delighted at the thought of seeing father's old home and living among the haunts of his boyhood. He had talked so much to us about it and described its scenes so often and so minutely that he had inspired us with some of his own deep-seated affection for it. An affection that had never waned in all his years of exile. We had a vague feeling that we somehow belonged there. In that cradle of our family, Though we had never seen it. We had always looked forward eagerly. To the promised day when father would take us down home to the old house with the spruces behind it and the famous king orchard before it when we might ramble in uncle Stephen's walk drink from the deep well with the Chinese roof over it stand on the pulpit stone and eat apples from birthday trees. The time had come, Sooner than we had dared to hope. But father could not take us after all. His firm asked him to go to Rio de Janeiro that spring. To take charge of their new branch there. It was too good a chance to lose. For father was a poor man. And it meant promotion. And increase of salary. But it also meant the temporary breaking up of our home. Our mother had died before either of us was old enough to remember her. Father could not take us to Rio de Janeiro. In the end, He decided to send us to Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet, Down on the homestead. And our housekeeper, Who belonged to the island and was now returning to it, Took charge of us on the journey. I fear she had an anxious trip of it, Poor woman. She was constantly in a quite justifiable terror, Lest we should be lost or killed. She must have felt great relief when she reached Charlottetown and handed us over to the keeping of Uncle Alec. Indeed, She said as much. The fat one isn't so bad. He isn't so quick to move and get out of your sight while you're winking as the thin one. But the only safe way to travel with those young ones would be to have them both tied to you with a short rope. A mighty short rope. The fat one was Felix, Who was very sensitive about his plumpness. He was always taking exercises to make him thin, With the dismal result that he became fatter all the time. He vowed that he didn't care. But he did care, Terribly. And he glowered at Mrs. McLaren in a most undutiful fashion. You He had never liked her. Since the day she had told him, He would soon be as broad as he was long. For my own part, I was rather sorry to see her going. And she cried over us and wished us well. But we had forgotten all about her by the time we reached the open country, Driving along, One on either side of Uncle Alec, Whom we loved from the moment we saw him. He was a small man with thin, Delicate features, Close-clipped grey beard, And large, Tired blue eyes. Father's eyes, Over again. We knew that Uncle Alec was fond of children and was heart glad to welcome Alan's boys. We felt at home with him and were not afraid to ask him questions on any subject that came uppermost in our minds. We became very good friends with him on that 24 mile drive. Much to our disappointment, It was dark when we reached Carlisle. Too dark to see anything very distinctly as we drove up the lane of the old King homestead on the hill. Behind us, A young moon was hanging over southwestern meadows of springtime peace. But all about us were the soft, Moist shadows of a May night. We peered eagerly through the gloom. There's the big willow, Bev, " whispered Felix excitedly as we turned in at the gate. There it was, In truth, The tree Grandfather King had planted when he returned one evening from ploughing in the brook field and stuck the willow switch he had used all day in the soft soil by the gate. Taken root and grown. Our father and our uncles and aunts had played in its shadow, And now it was a massive thing, With a huge girth of trunk and great spreading boughs, Each of them as large as a tree in itself. I'm going to climb it tomorrow, " I said joyfully. Off to the right was a dim, Branching place which we knew was the orchard, And on our left, Among sibilant spruces and firs, Was the old, Whitewashed house. From which, Presently, A light gleamed through an open door, And Aunt Janet, A big, Bustling, Sonsy woman with full-blown peony cheeks, Came to welcome us. Soon after, We were at supper in the kitchen, With its low, Dark, Rafted ceiling, From which substantial hams and flitches of bacon were hanging. Everything was just as father had described it. We felt that we had come home, Leaving exile behind us. Felicity, Cecily and Dan were sitting opposite us, Staring at us when they thought we would be too busy eating to see them. We tried to stare at them when they were eating and as a result we were always catching each other at it and feeling cheap and embarrassed. Dan was the oldest. He was my age, 13. He was a lean, Freckled fellow with rather long, Lank brown hair and the shapely king nose. We recognised it at once. His mouth was his own, However, For it was like to no mouth on either the king or the ward side. And Nobody would have been anxious to claim it, For it was an undeniably ugly one. Long and narrow and twisted. But it could grin in friendly fashion, And both Felix and I felt that we were going to like Dan. Felicity was 12. She had been called after Aunt Felicity, Who was the twin sister of Uncle Felix. Aunt Felicity and Uncle Felix, As Father had often told us, Had died on the same day. Far apart and were buried side by side in the old Carlisle graveyard. We had known from Aunt Olivia's letters that Felicity was the beauty of the connection. And we had been curious to see her on that account. She fully justified our expectations. She was plump and dimpled with big, Dark blue, Heavy-lidded eyes, Soft, Feathery golden curls and a pink and white skin, The king complexion. The kings were noted for their noses and complexion. Felicity had also delightful hands and wrists, At every turn of them a dimple. Showed itself. It was a pleasure to wonder what her elbows must be like. She was very nicely dressed in a pink print and a frilled muslin apron. And we understood from something Dan said that she had dressed up in honour of our coming. This made us feel quite important. So far as we knew, No feminine creatures had ever gone to the pains of dressing up on our account before. Cecily, Who was 11, Was pretty also. Or would have been had Felicity not been there. Felicity rather took the colour from other girls. Cecily looked pale and thin beside her. But she had dainty little features, Smooth brown hair of satin sheen, And mild brown eyes with just a hint of demureness in them now and again. We remembered that Aunt Olivia had written to Father that Cecily was a true ward. She had no sense of humour. We did not know what this meant, But we thought it was not exactly complimentary. Still, Were both inclined to think we would like Cecily better than Felicity. To be sure, Felicity was a stunning beauty, But with the swift and unerring intuition of childhood, Which feels in a moment what it sometimes takes maturity much time to perceive, We realised that she was rather too well aware of her good looks. In brief, We saw that Felicity was vain. It's a wonder the story girl isn't over to see you, " said Uncle Alec. She's been quite wild with excitement about your coming. She hasn't been very well all day, Explained Cecily. And Aunt Olivia wouldn't let her come out in the night air. She made her go to bed instead. The story girl was awfully disappointed. Who is the story girl? Asked Felix. Oh, Sarah. Sarah Stanley. We call her the story girl partly because she's such a hand to tell stories. I can't begin to describe it. And partly because Sarah Ray, Who lives at the foot of the hill, Often comes up to play with us. And it is awkward to have two girls of the same name in the same crowd. Besides, Sarah Stanley doesn't like her name and she'd rather be called the Story Girl. Dan, Speaking for the first time, Rather sheepishly, Volunteered the information that Peter had also been intending to come over, But had to go home to take some flour to his mother instead. Peter? I questioned. I had never heard of any Peter. He is your Uncle Roger's handy boy, Said Uncle Alec. His name is Peter Craig, And he is a real smart little chap. But he's got his share of mischief, That same lad. He wants to be Felicity's beau, Said Dan slyly. Don't talk silly nonsense, Dan, Said Aunt Janet severely. Felicity tossed her golden head and shot an unsystematic glance at Dan. I wouldn't be very likely to have a hired boy for a bow, She observed. We saw that her anger was real, Not affected. Evidently, Peter was not an admirer of whom Felicity was proud. We were very hungry boys, And when we had eaten all we could, And oh, What suppers Aunt Janet always spread, We discovered that we were very tired also. Too tired to go out and explore our ancestral domains, As we would have liked to do, Despite the dark. We were quite willing to go to bed. And presently we found ourselves tucked away upstairs in the very room looking out eastward into the spruce grove which father had once occupied. Dan shared it with us, Sleeping in a bed of his own in the opposite corner. The sheets and pillow slips were fragrant with lavender, And one of Grandmother King's noted patchwork quilts was over us. The window was open and we heard the frogs singing down in the swamp of the brook meadow. We had heard frogs sing in Ontario, Of course, But certainly Prince Edward Island frogs were more tuneful and mellow. Or was it simply the glamour of old family traditions and tales which was over us, Lending its magic to all sights and sounds around us? This was home. Father's home. Ah, Home. We had never lived long enough in any one house to develop a feeling of affection for it, But here, Under the roof tree built by Great Grandfather King 90 years ago, That feeling swept into our boyish hearts and souls like a flood of living sweetness and tenderness. Just think. Those are the very frogs Father listened to when he was a little boy. Whispered Felix. They can hardly be the same frogs? " I objected doubtfully, Not feeling very certain about the possible longevity of frogs. It's twenty years since father left home. Well, They're the descendants of the frogs he heard, Said Felix, And they're singing in the same swamp. That's near enough. Our door was open. And in their room across the narrow hall, The girls were preparing for bed, And talking rather more loudly than they might have done had they realised how far their sweet, Shrill voices carried. What do you think of the boys? " asked Cecily. Beverly is handsome, But Felix is too fat, Answered Felicity promptly. Felix twitched the quilt rather viciously and grunted. But I began to think. I would like Felicity. It might not be altogether her fault that she was vain. How could she help it when she looked in the mirror? I think they're both nice and nice-looking, " said Cecily. Dear little soul. I wonder what the story girl will think of them, Said Felicity, As if, After all, That was the main thing. Somehow, We, Too, Felt. That it was. We felt that if the story girl did not approve of us. . . It made little difference who else did or did not. I wonder if the story girl is pretty, Said Felix aloud. No, She isn't, Said Dan instantly from across the room. But you'll think she is while she's talking to you. Everybody does. It's only when you go away from her that you find out she isn't a bit pretty after all. The girl's door shut with a bang. Silence fell over the house. We. Drifted into the land of sleep. Wondering if the story girl would like us. Chapter Two A Queen of Hearts I wakened shortly after sunrise. The pale May sunshine was showering through the spruces, And a chill, Inspiring wind was tossing the boughs about. Felix, Wake up. I whispered, Shaking him. What's the matter? He murmured reluctantly. It's morning. Let's get up and go down and out. I can't wait another minute. To see the places father has told us of. We slipped out of bed and dressed without arousing Dan, Who was still slumbering soundly, His mouth wide open and his bedclothes kicked off on the floor. I had hard work to keep Felix from trying to see if he could shy a marble into that tempting open mouth. I told him it would waken Dan. Who would then likely insist on getting up and accompanying us, And it would be so much nicer to go by ourselves for the first time. Everything was very still as we crept downstairs. Out in the kitchen, We heard someone, Presumably Uncle Alec, Lighting the fire, But the heart of house had not yet begun to beat for the day. We paused a moment in the hall to look at the big grandfather clock. It was not going, But it seemed like an old, Familiar acquaintance to us, With the gilt balls on its three peaks, The little dial and pointer which would indicate the changes of the moon, And the very dent in its wooden door which father had made when he was a boy by kicking it in a fit of naughtiness. Then we opened the front door and stepped out. Rapture swelling in our bosoms. There was a rare breeze from the south blowing to meet us. The shadows of the spruces were long and clear-cut. The exquisite skies of early morning, Blue and wind-winnowed, Were over us. Away to the west, Beyond the brook field, Was a long valley and a hill purple with furs and laced with still, Leafless beeches and maples. Behind the house was a grove of fir and spruce, A dim, Cool place where the winds were fond of purring, And where there was always a resinous woodsy odour. On the further side of it was a thick plantation of slender silver birches and whispering poplars, And beyond it It was Uncle Roger's house. Right before us, Girt about with its trim spruce hedge, Was the famous King Orchard. The history of which was woven into our earliest recollections. We knew all about it from father's descriptions and in fancy we had roamed in it many a time and after. It was now nearly 60 years since it had had its beginning, When Grandfather King brought his bride home. Before the wedding, He had fenced off the big south meadow that sloped to the sun. It was the finest, Most fertile field on the farm. And the neighbours told young Abraham King that he would raise many a fine crop of wheat in that meadow. Abraham King smiled and, Being a man of few words, Said nothing. But in his mind, He had a vision of the years to be. And in that vision, He saw not rippling acres of harvest gold, But great leafy avenues of wide spreading trees laden with fruit to gladden the eyes of children and grandchildren yet unborn. It was a vision to develop slowly into fulfillment. Grandfather King was in no hurry. He did not set his whole orchard out at once, For he wished it to grow with his life and history. And be bound up with all of good and joy that should come to his household. So, The morning after he had brought his young wife home, They went together to the south meadow and planted their bridal trees. These trees were no longer living, But they had been when father was a boy, And every spring bedecked themselves in blossom as delicately tinted as Elizabeth King's face when she walked through the old south meadow in the morn of her life and love. When a son was born to Abraham and Elizabeth, A tree was planted in the orchard for him. They had fourteen children in all, And each child had its birth tree. Every family festival was commemorated in like fashion, And every beloved visitor who spent a night under their roof was expected to plant a tree in the orchard. So, It came to pass that every tree in it was a fair, Green monument to some love or delight of the vanishing years. And each grandchild had its tree there also, Set out by grandfather when the tidings of its birth reached him. Not always an apple tree. Perhaps it was a plum or a pear. Cherry or pear. But it was always known. By the name of the person for whom or by whom. It was planted. And Felix and I knew as much about Aunt Felicity's pears, And Aunt Julia's cherries, And Uncle Alex's apples, And the Reverend Mr. Scott's plums, As if we had been born and bred among them. And now we had come to the orchard. It was before us. We had only to open that little whitewashed gate in the hedge and we might find ourselves in its storied domain. But before we reached the gate, We glanced to our left along the grassy, Spruce-bordered lane which led over to Uncle Roger's and At the entrance of that lane, We saw a girl standing with a grey cat at her feet. She lifted her hand and beckoned blithely to us. And the orchard forgotten, We followed her summons. For we knew that this must be the story girl. And in that gay and graceful gesture was an allurement not to be gainsaid or denied. We looked at her as we drew near with such interest that we forgot to feel shy. No. She was not pretty. She was tall for her fourteen years, Slim and straight. Around her long white face, Rather too long and too white, Fell sleek, Dark brown curls, Tied above either ear with rosettes of scarlet ribbon. Her large curving mouth was as red as a poppy, And she had brilliant almond-shaped hazel eyes, But we did not think her pretty. Then she spoke. She said, Good morning. Never. Had we heard a voice like hers? Never! In all my life since have I heard such a voice. I. . . I cannot describe it. I might say it was clear. I might say it was sweet. I might say it was vibrant and far-reaching and bell-like. All this would be true but It would give you no real idea of the peculiar quality which made the story girl's voice what it was. If voices had colour, Hers would have been like a rainbow. It made words live. Whatever she said became a breathing entity. Not a mere verbal statement or utterance. Felix and I. We're too young to understand or analyze the impression it made upon us, But we instantly felt at her greeting that it was a good morning. A surpassingly good. Morning. The very best morning that had ever happened in this most excellent of worlds. You are Felix and Beverly, " she went on, Shaking our hands with an air of frank comradeship, Which was very different from the shy, Feminine advances of Felicity and Cecily. From that moment, We were as good friends as if we had known each other for a hundred years. I am glad to see you. I was so disappointed I couldn't go over last night. I got up early this morning though, For I felt sure you would be up early too, And that you'd like to have me tell you about things. I can tell things so much better than Felicity or Cecily. Do you think Felicity is very pretty? She's the prettiest girl I ever saw, I said enthusiastically, Remembering that Felicity had called me handsome. The boys all think so, Said the story girl. Not, I fancied, Quite well pleased. And I suppose she is. She is a splendid cook too, Though she is only 12. I can't cook. I am trying to learn but I don't make much progress. Aunt Olivia says, I haven't enough natural gumption ever to be a cook. But I'd love to be able to make as good cakes and pies as Felicity can make. But then, Felicity is stupid. It's not ill-natured of me to say that, It's just the truth. You'd soon find it out for yourselves. I like Felicity very well, But she is stupid. Cecily is ever so much cleverer. Cecily's a dear. So is Uncle Alec. And Aunt Janet is pretty nice too. What is Aunt Olivia like? Asked Felix. Aunt Olivia is very pretty. She is just like a pansy, All velvety and purpley and goldy. Felix and I saw, Somewhere inside of our heads, A velvet and purple and gold pansy woman, Just as the story girl spoke. But is she nice? I asked. That was the main question about grownups. Their looks mattered little to us. She is lovely. Lovely. But she is 29, You know. That's pretty old. She doesn't bother me much. Aunt Janet says that I'd have no bringing up at all if it wasn't for her. Aunt Olivia says children should just be let come up, That everything else is settled for them long before they are born. I don't understand that. Do you? No, We did not. But it was our experience that grown-ups had a habit of saying things hard to understand. What is Uncle Roger like? Was our next question. Well. I like Uncle Roger, Said the story girl meditatively. He is big and jolly. But he teases people too much. You ask him a serious question and you get a ridiculous answer. He hardly ever scolds or gets cross though. And that is something. He is an old bachelor. Doesn't he ever mean to get married? Asked Felix. I don't know. Aunt Olivia wishes he would because she's tired keeping house for him and she wants to go to Aunt Julia in California. But she says he'll never get married because he is looking for perfection. And when he finds her, She won't have him. By this time, We were all sitting down on the gnarled roots of the spruces, And the big grey cat came over and made friends with us. He was a lordly animal, With a silver grey coat beautifully marked with darker stripes. With such colouring, Most cats would have had white or silver feet, But he had four black paws and a black nose. Such points gave him an air of distinction and marked him out as quite different from the common or garden variety of cats. He seemed to be a cat with a tolerably good opinion of himself and his response to our advances was slightly tinged with condescension. This isn't Topsy, Is it? I asked. I knew at once that the question was a foolish one. Topsy, The cat of which father had talked, Had flourished thirty years before, And all her nine lives could scarcely have lasted so long. No. But it is Topsy's great-great-great-great grandson, Said the story girl gravely. His name is Paddy, And he is my own particular cat. We have barn cats, But Paddy never associates with them. I am very good friends with all cats. They are so sleek and comfortable and dignified. And it is so easy to make them happy. Oh, I'm so glad you boys have come to live here. Nothing ever happens here except days. So we have to make our own good times. We were short of boys before, Only Dan and Peter to four girls. Four girls? Oh yes, Sarah Ray. Felicity mentioned her. What is she like? Where does she live? Just down the hill. You can't see the house for the spruce bush. Sarah is a nice girl. She's only 11 and her mother is dreadfully strict. She never allows Sarah to read a single story. Just you fancy! Sarah's conscience is always troubling her for doing things she's sure her mother won't approve. But it never prevents her from doing them. It only spoils her fun. Uncle Roger says that a mother who won't let you do anything and a conscience that won't let you enjoy anything is an awful combination. And he doesn't wonder Sarah is pale and thin and nervous but between you and me. I believe the real reason is that her mother doesn't give her half enough to eat. Not that she's mean, You know, But she thinks it isn't healthy for children to eat much or anything but certain things. Isn't it fortunate we weren't born into that sort of a family? I think it's awfully lucky we were all born into the same family. Felix remarked, Isn't it? I've often thought so. And I've often thought what a dreadful thing it would have been if Grandfather and Grandmother King had never got married to each other. I don't suppose there would have been a single one of us children here at all. Or if we were, We would be part somebody else and that would be almost as bad. When I think it all over, I can't feel too thankful that Grandfather and Grandmother King happened to marry each other. When there were so many other people they might have married. Felix and I shivered. We felt suddenly that we had escaped a dreadful danger. The danger of having been born somebody else. But it took the story girl to make us realise just how dreadful it was, And what a terrible risk we had run years before we, Or our parents either, Had existed. Who lives over there? I asked, Pointing to a house across the fields. Oh. That belongs to the awkward man. His name is Jasper Dale, But everybody calls him The Awkward Man. And they do say he writes poetry. He calls his place Golden Milestone. I know why, Because I've read Longfellow's poems. He never goes into society because he is so awkward. The girls laugh at him and he doesn't like it. I know a story about him. And I'll tell it to you sometime. And who lives in that other house? Asked Felix, Looking over the Westering Valley, Where a little grey roof was visible among the trees. Old Peg Bowen She's very queer. She lives there with a lot of pet animals in winter and in summer she roams over the country and begs her meals. They say she is crazy. People have always tried to frighten us children into good behaviour by telling us that Peg Bowen would catch us if we didn't behave. I'm not so frightened of her as I once was, But. . . I don't think I would like to be caught by her. Sarah Ray is dreadfully scared of her. Peter Craig says she is a witch and that he bets she's at the bottom of it when the butter won't come. But I don't believe that. Witches are so scarce nowadays. There may be some somewhere in the world, But it's not likely there are any here, Right in Prince Edward Island. End. They used to be very plenty long ago. I know some splendid witch stories I'll tell you someday. They'll just make your blood freeze in your veins. We hadn't a doubt of it. If anybody could freeze the blood in our veins, This girl with the wonderful voice could. But it was a May morning and our young blood was running blithely in our veins. We suggested a visit to the orchard would be more agreeable. All right, I know stories about it too, She said, As we walked across the yard, Followed by Paddy of the Waving Tail. Oh, Aren't you glad it is spring? The beauty of winter is that it makes you appreciate spring. The latch of the gate clicked under the story girl's hand. And the next moment, We were in the king orchard. Chapter Three Legends of the Old Orchard Outside of the orchard, The grass was only beginning to grow green. But here. Sheltered by the spruce hedges from uncertain winds and sloping to southern suns, It was already like a wonderful velvet carpet. The leaves on the trees were beginning to come out in woolly, Greyish clusters, And there were purple-penciled white violets at the base of the pulpit stone. It's all just as father described it, " said Felix with a blissful sigh. And there's the well with the Chinese roof. We hurried over to it, Treading on the spears of mint that were beginning to shoot up about it. It was a very deep well. And the curb was of rough, Undressed stones. Over it, The queer, Pagoda-like roof, Built by Uncle Stephen on his return from a voyage to China, Was covered with yet leafless vines. It's so pretty when the vines leaf out and hang down in long festoons, Said the story girl. The birds build their nests in it. A pair of wild canaries come here every summer and ferns grow out between the stones of the well as far down as you can see. The water is lovely. Uncle Edward preached his finest sermon about the Bethlehem well where David's soldiers went to get him water. And he illustrated it by describing his old well at the homestead. This very well. And how in foreign lands he had longed for its sparkling water. So, You see, It is quite famous. There's a cup, Just like the one that used to be here in father's time, Exclaimed Felix, Pointing to an old-fashioned shallow cup. Of clouded blue ware on a little shelf inside the curb. It is the very same cup. Said the story girl impressively. Isn't it an amazing thing? That cup has been here for 40 years and hundreds of people have drunk from it and it has never been broken Aunt Julia dropped it down the well once. But they fished it up. Not hurt a bit. Except for that little nick in the rim. I think it is bound up with the fortunes of the King family, Like the luck of Eden Hall in Longfellow's poem. It is the last cup of Grandmother King's second best set. Her best set is still complete. Aunt Olivia has it. You must get her to show it to you. It's so pretty, With red berries all over it and the funniest little pot-bellied cream jug. Aunt Olivia never uses it, Except on a family anniversary. We took a drink from the blue cup and then went to find our birthday trees. We were rather disappointed to find them quite large, Sturdy ones. It seemed to us that they should still be in the sapling stage, Corresponding to our boyhood. Your apples are lovely to eat, The story girl said to me. But Felix's are only good for pies. Those two big trees behind them are the twins' trees, My mother and Uncle Felix, You know? The apples are so dead sweet that nobody but us children the French boys can eat them. And that tall slender tree over there with the branches all growing straight up. Is a seedling that came up of itself and nobody can eat its apples. They are so sour and bitter. Even the pigs won't eat them. Aunt Janet tried to make pies of them once because she said she hated to see them going to waste. But she never tried again. She said it was better to waste apples alone than apples and sugar too. And then she tried giving them away to the French hired men. But they wouldn't even carry them home. The story girl's words fell on the morning air like pearls and diamonds. Even her prepositions and conjunctions had untold charm. Hinting at mystery and laughter and magic bound up in everything she mentioned. Apple pies and sour seedlings and pigs became straight away invested with a glamour of romance. I like to hear you talk, Said Felix in his grave, Stodgy way. Everybody does, Said the story girl coolly. I'm glad you like the way I talk. But. . . I want you to like me too. As well as you like Felicity and Cecily. Not better I wanted that once, But I've got over it. I found out in Sunday school, The day the minister taught our class that it was selfish. But I want you to like me as well. Well i will for one said felix emphatically i think he was remembering that felicity had called him fat Cecily now joined us. It appeared that it was Felicity's morning to help prepare breakfast, Therefore she could not come. We all went to Uncle Stephen's walk. This was a double row of apple trees running down the western side of the orchard. Uncle Stephen was the firstborn of Abraham and Elizabeth King. He had none of Grandfather's abiding love for woods and meadows and the kindly ways of the warm red earth. Grandmother King had been a ward, And in Uncle Stephen the blood of the seafaring race claimed its own. To sea he must go. Despite the pleadings and tears of a reluctant mother. And it was from the sea he came to set out his avenue in the orchard with trees brought from a foreign land. Then he sailed away again, And the ship was never heard of more. The grey first came in grandmother's brown hair in those months of waiting. Then, For the first time, The orchard heard the sound of weeping. And was consecrated by a sorrow. When the blossoms come out, It's wonderful to walk here, Said the story girl. It's like a dream of fairyland, As if you were walking in a king's palace. The apples are delicious. And in winter, It's a splendid place for coasting. From the walk, We went to the pulpit stone. A huge grey boulder, As high as a man's head, In the south-eastern corner. It was straight and smooth in front, But sloped down in natural steps behind, With a ledge midway on which one could stand. It had played an important part in the games of our uncles and aunts, Being fortified castle. Indian ambush, Throne, Pulpit or concert platform as occasion required. Uncle Edward had preached his first sermon at the age of eight, From that old grey boulder, And Aunt Julia, Whose voice was to delight thousands, Sang her earliest madrigals there. The story girl mounted to the ledge, Sat on the rim, And looked at us. Pat sat gravely at its base and daintily washed his face with his black paws. Now for your stories about the orchard, Said I. There are Two important ones, Said the story girl. The story of the poet who was kissed. And the tale of the family ghost. Which one shall I tell? Tell them both, Said Felix greedily, But tell the ghost one first. I don't know. The story girl looked dubious. That sort of story ought to be told in the twilight, Among the shadows. Then it would frighten the souls out of your bodies. We thought it might be more agreeable not to have the souls frightened out of our bodies. And we voted for the family ghost. Ghost stories are more comfortable in daytime, Said Felix. The story girl began it and we listened avidly. Cecily, Who had heard it many times before, Listened just as eagerly as we did. She declared to me afterwards that no matter how often the story girl told a story, It always seemed as new and exciting as if you had just heard it for the first time. Long, Long ago began the story girl, Her voice giving us an impression of remote antiquity. Even before Grandfather King was born. An orphan cousin of his lived here with his parents. Her name. Was Emily King. She was very small and very sweet. She had soft brown eyes that were too timid to look straight at anybody, Like Cecily's there, And long, Sleek brown curls, Like mine. And she had a tiny birthmark, Like a pink butterfly, On one cheek. Right here. Of course, There was no orchard here then. It was just a field. But there was a clump of white birches in it. Right where that big spreading tree of Uncle Alex is now. And Emily liked to sit among the ferns under the birches and read or sew. She had a lover. His name was Malcolm Ward, And he was as handsome as a prince. She loved him with all her heart, And he loved her the same, But they had never spoken about it. They used to meet under the birches and talk about everything except love. One day, He told her. He was coming the next day to ask a very important question. And he wanted to find her under the birches when he came. Emily promised to meet him there. I am sure she stayed awake that night thinking about it and wondering what the important question would be. Although. . . She knew perfectly well I would have. And the next day, She dressed herself beautifully in her best pale blue muslin and sleeked her curls and went smiling to the birches. And while she was waiting there, Thinking such lovely thoughts, A neighbour's boy came running up. A boy who didn't know about her romance, And cried out that Malcolm Ward had been killed by his gun going off accidentally. Emily. Just put her hands to her heart, So, And fell, All white and broken among the ferns. And when she came back to life. She never cried or lamented. She was changed. She was never, Never like herself again. And she was never contented, Unless she was dressed in her blue muslin and waiting under the birches. She got paler and paler every day. But the pink butterfly grew redder and redder. Until it looked just like a stain of blood on her white cheek. When the winter came. She died. But next spring, The story girl dropped her voice to a whisper that was as audible and thrilling as her louder tones. People began to tell. That Emily was sometimes seen waiting under the birches still. Nobody knew just who told it first, But more than one person saw her. Grandfather saw her. When he was a little boy. And my mother saw her once. Did you ever see her? Asked Felix skeptically. No, But I shall someday. If I keep on believing in her, Said the story girl confidently. I wouldn't like to see her. I'd be afraid, Said Cecily with a shiver. There wouldn't be anything to be afraid of, Said the story girl reassuringly. It's not as if it were a strange ghost. It's our own family ghost. So, Of course, It wouldn't hurt us. We were not so sure of this. Ghosts were unchancy folk, Even if they were our family ghosts. The story girl had made the tale very real to us. We were glad we had not heard it in the evening. How could we ever have got back to the house through the shadows and swaying branches of a darkening orchard? As it was, We were almost afraid to look up. Lest we should see. The waiting, Blue-clad Emily. Under Uncle Alec's tree. But all we saw was Felicity tearing over the green swath, Her curls streaming behind her in a golden cloud. Felicity's afraid she's missed something, Remarked the Story Girl in a tone of quiet amusement. Is your breakfast ready, Felicity? Or have I time to tell the boys the story of the poet who was kissed? Breakfast is ready, But we can't have it till father is through attending to the sick cow, So you will likely have time, " answered Felicity. Felix and I couldn't keep our eyes off her. Crimson-cheeked, Shining-eyed from her haste, Her face was like a rose of youth. But when the story girls spoke, We forgot to look at Felicity. About ten years after Grandfather and Grandmother King were married, A young man came to visit them. He was a distant relative of grandmother's and he. . . Was a poet. He was just beginning to be famous. He was very famous afterward. He came into the orchard to write a poem and he fell asleep. With his head on a bench that used to be under grandfather's tree. Then great-aunt Edith came into the orchard. She was not a great-aunt then, Of course. She was only 18. With red lips and black, Black hair and eyes. They say she was always full of mischief. She had been away and had just come home, And she didn't know about the poet. But when she saw him sleeping there, She thought he was a cousin they had been expecting from Scotland. And she tiptoed up, So, And bent over, So, And kissed his cheek. Then he opened his big blue eyes and looked up into Edith's face. She blushed as red as a rose, For she knew she had done a dreadful thing. This could not be her cousin from Scotland. She knew, For he had written so to her, That he had eyes as black as her own. Edith ran away and hid. And of course she felt still worse when she found out that he was a famous poet. But he wrote one of his most beautiful poems on it afterwards and sent it to her. And it was published in one of his books. We had seen it all. The sleeping genius, The roguish, Red-lipped girl, The kiss dropped as lightly as a rose petal on the sunburned cheek. They should have got married, Said Felix. Well, In a book they would have, But You see, This was in real life, Said the story girl. We sometimes act the story out. I like it when Peter plays the poet. I don't like it when Dan is the poet because he's so freckled and screws his eyes up so tight. But you can hardly ever coax Peter to be the poet. Except when Felicity is Edith, And Dan is so obliging that way. What is Peter like? I asked. Peter is splendid. His mother lives on the Markdale Road and washes for a living. Peter's father ran away and left them when Peter was only three years old. He has never come back. And they don't know whether he is alive or dead. Isn't that a nice way to behave to your family? Peter has worked for his board ever since he was six. Uncle Roger sends him to school and pays him wages in summer. We all like Peter. Except felicity. I like Peter well enough in his place, Said Felicity primly. But you make far too much of him, Mother says. He is only a hired boy and he hasn't been well brought up and hasn't much education. I don't think you should make such an equal of him as you do. Laughter rippled over the story girl's face as shadow waves go over ripe wheat before a wind. Peter is a real gentleman. And he is more interesting than you could ever be if you were brought up and educated for a hundred years, She said. He can hardly write, Said Felicity. William the Conqueror? Couldn't write at all. Said the story girl, Crushingly. He never goes to church and he never says his prayers, Retorted Felicity, Uncrushed. I do too, Said Peter himself. Suddenly appearing through a little gap in the hedge. I say my prayers sometimes. This Peter was a slim shapely fellow with laughing black eyes and thick black curls. Early in the season as it was, He was barefooted. His attire consisted of a faded gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers, But he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed than he really was. You don't pray very often, Insisted Felicity. Well, God will be all the more likely to listen to me if I don't pester him all the time, Argued Peter. This. Was rank heresy to Felicity. But the story girl looked as if she thought there might be something in it. You never go to church anyhow, Continued Felicity, Determined not to be argued down. Well, I ain't going to church till I've made up my mind whether I'm going to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian. Aunt Jane was a Methodist. My mother ain't much of anything, But. . . I mean to be something. It's more respectable to be a Methodist or a Presbyterian or. . . Something than not to be anything. When I've settled what I'm to be, I'm going to church, Same as you. That's not the same as being born something, Said Felicity loftily. I think it's a good deal better to pick your own religion than have to take it just because it was what your folks had, Retorted Peter. Now, Never mind quarrelling, Said Cecily. You leave Peter alone, Felicity. Peter, This is Beverly King and this is Felix. And we're all going to be good friends. And have a lovely summer together. Think of the games we can have. But if you go squabbling, You'll spoil it all. Peter, What are you going to do today? Harrow the wood field and dig your Aunt Olivia's flower beds. Aunt Olivia and I planted sweet peas yesterday, Said the story girl. And I planted a little bed of my own. I am not going to dig them up this year to see if they have sprouted. Is bad for them. I shall try. To cultivate. Patience. No matter how long they are coming up. I am going to help Mother plant the vegetable garden today, " said Felicity. Oh. I never like the vegetable garden, Said the story girl, Except when I'm hungry. Then I do like to go and look at the nice little rows of onions and beets. But I love a flower garden. I think I could be always good if I lived in a garden all the time. Adam and Eve lived in a garden all the time, Said Felicity, And they were far from being always good. They mightn't have kept good as long as they did if they hadn't lived in a garden. Said the story girl. We were now summoned to breakfast. Peter and the Story Girl slipped away through the gap, Followed by Paddy, And the rest of us walked up the orchard to the house. Well, What do you think of the Story Girl? Asked Felicity. She's just fine, Said Felix enthusiastically. I never heard anything like her to tell stories. She can't cook. Said Felicity, And she hasn't a good complexion. Mind you, She says she's going to be an actress when she grows up. Isn't that dreadful? We didn't exactly see why. Oh, Because actresses are always wicked people. Said Felicity in a shocked tone. But I dare say. . . The story girl will go and be one just as soon as she can. Her father will back her up in it. He is an artist, You know. Evidently, Felicity thought artists and actresses and all such poor trash were members one of another. Aunt Olivia says the story girl is fascinating, Said Cecily. The very adjective. Felix and I recognised its beautiful fitness at once. Yes. The story girl was fascinating. And that was the final word to be said on the subject. Dan did not come down until breakfast was half over. And Aunt Janet talked to him after a fashion which made us realise that it would be well to keep, As the piquant country phrase went, From the rough side of her tongue. But, All things considered, We liked the prospect of our summer very much. Felicity to look at, The Story Girl to tell us tales of wonder, Cecily to admire us, Dan and Peter to play with, What more could reasonable fellows want? Chapter Four The Wedding Veil of the Proud Princess When we had lived for a fortnight in Carlisle, We belonged there, And the freedom of all its small fry was conferred on us. With Peter and Dan, With Felicity and Cecily and the Story Girl, With pale, Grey-eyed little Sarah Ray, We were boon companions. We went to school, Of course, And certain home chores were assigned to each of us for the faithful performance of which we were held responsible. But we had long hours for play. Even Peter had plenty of spare time when the planting was over. We got along very well with each other in the main, In spite of some minor differences of opinion. As for the grown-up denizens of our small world, They suited us also. We adored Aunt Olivia. She was pretty and merry and kind. And above all, She had mastered to perfection the rare art of letting children alone. In. If we kept ourselves tolerably clean and refrained from quarrelling or talking slang, Aunt Olivia did not worry us. Aunt Janet, On the contrary, Gave us so much good advice and was so constantly telling us to do this or not to do the other thing that We could not remember half her instructions and did not try. Uncle Roger was, As we had been informed, Quite jolly and fond of teasing. We liked him, But we had an uncomfortable feeling that the meaning of his remarks was not always that which met the ear. Sometimes we believed Uncle Roger was making fun of us and the deadly seriousness of youth in us resented that. To Uncle Alec, We gave our warmest love. We felt that we always had a friend at court in Uncle Alec, No matter what we did or left undone. And we never had to turn his speeches inside out to discover their meaning. The social life of juvenile Carlisle, Centred in the day and Sunday schools. We were especially interested in our Sunday school, For we were fortunate enough to be assigned to a teacher who made our lessons so interesting that we no longer regarded Sunday school attendance as a disagreeable weekly duty. But instead looked forward to it with pleasure and tried to carry out our teacher's gentle precepts. At least on Mondays and Tuesdays. I am afraid the remembrance grew a little dim the rest of the week. She was also deeply interested in missions. And one talk on this subject inspired the story girl to do a little home missionary work on her own account. The only thing she could think of along this line was to persuade Peter to go to church. Felicity did not approve of the design and said so plainly. He won't know how to behave. For he's never been inside a church door in his life, She warned the story girl. He'll likely do something awful. And then you'll feel ashamed and wish you'd never asked him to go and we'll all be disgraced. It's all right to have our might boxes for the heathen and send missionaries to them. They're far away and we don't have to associate with them. But I don't want to have to sit in a pew with a hired boy. But the story girl, Undauntedly, Continued to coax the reluctant Peter. It was not an easy matter. Peter did not come of a church-going stock. And besides, He alleged he had not yet made up his mind whether to be a Presbyterian or a Methodist. It isn't a bit of difference which you are, Pleaded the story girl. They both go to heaven. But one must be brave. Easier or better than the other, Or else they'd all be one kind, " argued Peter. I want to find the easiest way. And I've got a hankering after the Methodists. My Aunt Jane was a Methodist. Isn't she one still? Asked Felicity pertly. Well. . . I don't know exactly. She's dead, Said Peter rebukingly. Do people go on being just the same after they're dead? No. Of course not. They're angels then. Methodists or anything but just angels. That is, If they go to heaven. Supposing they went to the other place. But. . . Felicity's theology broke down at this point. She turned her back on Peter. And walked disdainfully away. The story girl returned to the main point with a new argument. We have such a lovely minister, Peter. He looks just like the picture of St John my father sent me. Only he is old and his hair is white. I know you'd like him. And even if you are going to be a Methodist, It won't hurt you to go to the Presbyterian church The nearest Methodist church is six miles away, At Markdale. And you can't attend there just now? Go to the Presbyterian church until you're old enough to have a horse. But supposing I got too fond of being Presbyterian and couldn't change if I wanted to? Objected Peter. Altogether, The story girl had a hard time of it. But. . . She persevered and one day she came to us with the announcement that Peter had yielded. He's going to church with us tomorrow. She said triumphantly. We were out in Uncle Roger's hill pasture, Sitting on some smooth round stones under a clump of birches. Behind us was an old grey fence, With violets and dandelions thick in its corners. Below us was the Carlisle Valley, With its orchard-embowered homesteads and fertile meadows. Its upper end was with a delicate spring mist, Winds blew up the field like wave upon wave of sweet savour, Spice of bracken and balsam. We were eating little jam turnovers which Felicity had made for us. Felicity's turnovers were perfection. I looked at her and wondered why it was not enough that she should be so pretty and capable of making such turnovers. If she were only more Interesting. Felicity had not a particle of the nameless charm and allurement which hung about every motion of the Story Girl. And made itself manifest in her lightest word and most careless glance. Ah well, One cannot have every good gift. The story girl had no dimples at her slim brown wrists. We all enjoyed our turnovers. Except Sarah Ray. She ate hers, But she knew she should not have done so. Her mother did not approve of snacks between meals or of jam turnovers at any time. Once, When Sarah was in a Brown study, I asked her what she was thinking of. I'm trying to Think of something Ma hasn't forbid. She answered with a sigh. We were all glad to hear that Peter was going to church. Except Felicity. She was full of gloomy forebodings and warnings. I'm surprised at you, Felicity King. Said Cecily severely, You ought to be glad that poor boy is going to get started in the right way. There's a great big patch on his best pair of trousers, Protested Felicity. Well that's better than a hole said the story girl addressing herself daintily to her turnover god won't notice the patch no but the carlyle people will retorted Felicity in a tone which implied that what the Carlisle people thought was far more important. And I don't believe that Peter has got a decent stocking to his name. What will you feel like if he goes to church with the skin of his legs showing through the holes, Miss Story Girl? I'm not a bit afraid, " said the story girl staunchly. Peter knows better than that. Well. All I hope is that he'll wash behind his ears, " said Felicity resignedly. How is Pat today? Asked Cecily by way of changing the conversation. Pat isn't a bit better. He just mopes about the kitchen, Said the story girl anxiously. I went out to the barn and I saw a mouse. I had a stick in my hand and I fetched a swipe at it. So I killed it stone dead. Then I took it in to Paddy. Will you believe it? He wouldn't even look at it. I'm so worried. Uncle Roger says he needs a dose of physic. But how is he to be made take it? That's the question. I mixed a powder in some milk and tried to pour it down his throat while Peter held him. Just look at the scratches I got. And the milk went everywhere except down Pat's throat. Wouldn't it be awful if. . . If anything happened to Pat, Whispered Cecily. Well, We could have a jolly funeral, You know, " said Dan. We looked at him in such horror that Dan hastened to apologise. I. . . Be awful sorry myself if pat died but If he did. . . We'd have to get him the right kind of a funeral, He protested. Why? Paddy just seems like one of the family. The story girl finished her turnover and stretched herself out on the grasses. Pillowing her chin in her hands and looking at the sky. She was bareheaded, As usual, And her scarlet ribbon was bound fillet-wise about her head. She had twined freshly plucked dandelions around it, And the effect was that of a crown of brilliant golden stars on her sleek brown curls. Look at that long, Thin, Lacy cloud up there, " she said. What does it make you think of, Girls? A wedding veil, Said Cecily. That is just what it is. The wedding veil of the proud princess. I know a story about it. I read it in a book. Once upon a time. The story girl's eyes grew dreamy. And her accents floated away on the summer air like wind-blown rose petals. There was a princess who was the most beautiful princess in the world. And kings from all lands came to woo her for a bride. But she was as proud as she was beautiful. She laughed all her suitors to scorn. And when her father urged her to choose one of them as her husband, She drew herself up haughtily, So that the story girl sprang to her feet and For a moment we saw the proud princess of the old tale in all her scornful loveliness. And she said, I will not wed until a king comes who can conquer all kings. Then I shall be the wife of the king of the world, And no one can hold herself higher than I. So, Every king went to war to prove that he could conquer everyone else. And there was a great deal of bloodshed and misery. But the proud princess laughed and sang, And she and her maidens worked at a wonderful lace veil, Which she meant to wear when the king of all kings came. It was a very beautiful veil, But her maidens whispered that a man had died and a woman's heart had broken for every stitch set in it. Just when a king thought he had conquered everybody. Some other king would come and conquer him. And so it went on, Until it did not seem likely the proud princess would ever get a husband at all. But still, Her pride was so great that she would not yield. Even though everybody, Except the kings who wanted to marry her, Hated her for the suffering she had caused. Post. One day, A horn was blown at the palace gate. And there was one tall man, In complete armour, With his visor down, Riding on a white horse. When he said he had come to marry the princess, Everyone laughed, For he had no retinue, And no beautiful apparel, And no golden crown. But I am the king who conquers all kings, He said. You must prove it before I shall marry you, " said the proud princess. But she trembled and turned pale, For there was something in his voice that frightened her. And when he laughed, His laughter was still more dreadful. I can easily prove it, Beautiful princess, He said, But you must go with me to my kingdom for the proof. Marry me now and you and I and your father and all your court will ride straight away to my kingdom. And if you are not satisfied, Then, That I am the king who conquers all kings, You may give me back my ring and return home free of me forevermore. It was a strange wooing, And the friends of the princess begged her to refuse, But her pride won. Whispered that it would be such a wonderful thing. To be the queen of the king of the world. So she consented. And her maidens dressed her and put on the long lace veil that had been so many years a-making. Then they were married at once. But the bridegroom never lifted his visor and no one saw his face. The proud princess held herself more proudly than ever. But she was as white as her veil. And there was no laughter or merrymaking such as should be at a wedding. And everyone looked at everyone else with fear in his eyes. After the wedding, The bridegroom lifted his bride before him on his white horse, And her father and all the members of his court mounted, Too, And rode after them. On and on they rode, And the skies grew darker, And the wind blew and wailed, And the shades of evening came down. And just in the twilight, They rode into a dark valley filled with tombs and graves. Why have you brought me here cried the proud princess angrily This is my kingdom, He answered. These are the tombs of the kings I have conquered. Behold me, Beautiful princess. I am death. He lifted his visor. All saw his awful face. The proud princess shrieked. Come to my arms, My bride, " he cried. I have won you fairly. I am the king who conquers all kings. He clasped her fainting form to his breast and spurred his white horse to the tombs. A tempest of rain broke over the valley and blotted them from sight. Very sadly, The old king and courtiers rode home. And never, Never again did human eye behold the proud princess. But when those long white clouds sweep across the sky, The country people in the land where she lived say, Look you, There is the wedding veil of the proud princess. The weird spell of the tale rested on us for some moments after the story girl had finished. We had walked with her in the place of death. And grown cold with the horror that chilled the heart of the poor princess. Dan presently broke the spell. You see? It doesn't do to be too proud, Felicity, He remarked, Giving her a poke. You'd better not say too much about Peter's patches. Chapter five. Peter goes to church. There was no Sunday school the next afternoon, As superintendent and teachers wished to attend a communion service at Markdale. The Carlisle service was in the evening, And at sunset we were waiting at Uncle Alec's front door for Peter and the Story Girl. None of the grown-ups were going to church. Aunt Olivia had a sick headache and Uncle Roger stayed home with her. Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec had gone to the Markdale service and had not yet returned. Felicity and Cecily were wearing their new summer muslins for the first time and were acutely conscious of the fact. Felicity, Her pink and white face shadowed by her drooping, Forget-me-not-wreathed leghorn hat, Was as beautiful as usual. But Cecily, Having tortured her hair with curl papers all night, Had a rampant bush of curls all about her head, Which quite destroyed the sweet, Nun-like expression of her little features. Cecily cherished a grudge against fate because she had not been given naturally curly hair as had the other two girls. But she attained the desire of her heart on Sundays, At least, And was quite well satisfied. It was impossible to convince her that the satin-smooth luster of her weekday tresses was much more becoming to her. Presently, Peter and the Story Girl appeared, And we were all more or less relieved to see that Peter looked quite respectable, Despite the indisputable patch on his trousers. His face was rosy, His thick black curls were smoothly combed, And his tie was neatly bowed. But. . . It was his legs which we scrutinised most anxiously. At first glance, They seemed well enough, But closer inspection revealed something not altogether customary. What is the matter with your stockings, Peter? Asked Dan bluntly. Oh, I hadn't a pair without holes in the legs, Answered Peter easily, Because Ma hadn't time to darn them this week, So I put on two pairs. The holes don't come in the same places and you'd never notice them, Unless you looked right close. Have you got a cent for collection? Demanded Felicity. I've got a Yankee scent. I suppose it'll do, Won't it? Felicity shook her head vehemently. Oh, No. No! It may be alright to pass a Yankee scent on a storekeeper or an egg peddler but it would never do for church. I'll have to go without any then, Said Peter. I haven't another cent. I only get 50 cents a week and I give it all to Ma last night. But Peter must have a sense. Felicity would have given him one herself and she was none too lavish of her coppers rather than have him go without one. Dan, However, Lent him one on the distinct understanding that it was to be repaid the next week. Uncle Roger wandered by at this moment, And, Beholding Peter, Said, Is Saul also among the prophets? What can have induced you to turn church-goer, Peter? When all Olivia's gentle persuasions were of no avail. The old, Old argument, I suppose. Beauty draws us with a single hair. Uncle Roger looked quizzically at Felicity. We did not know what his quotations meant, But we understood he thought Peter was going to church because of Felicity. Felicity tossed her head. It isn't my fault that he's going to church, She said snappishly. It's the story girl's doings. Uncle Roger sat down on the doorstep. And gave himself over to one of the silent, Inward paroxysms of laughter we all found so very aggravating. He shook his big blonde head, Shut his eyes and murmured, Not her fault. Oh, Felicity. Felicity, You'll be the death of your dear uncle yet if you don't watch out. Felicity started off indignantly, And we followed, Picking up Sarah Ray at the foot of the hill. The Carlisle Church was a very old-fashioned one, With a square, Ivy-hung tower. It was shaded by tall elms and the graveyard surrounded it completely, Many of the graves being directly under its windows. We always took the corner path through it, Passing the King plot, Where our kindred of four generations slept in a green solitude of wavering light and shadow. There was Great Grandfather King's flat tombstone of rough island sandstone. So overgrown with ivy that we could hardly read its lengthy inscription. Recording his whole history in brief. And finishing with eight lines of original verse composed by his widow. I do not think that poetry was Great Grandmother King's strong point. When Felix read it on our first Sunday in Carlisle, He remarked dubiously that it looked like poetry, But didn't sound like it. There, Too, Slept the Emily, Whose faithful spirit was supposed to haunt the orchard. But Edith, Who had kissed the poet, Lay not with her kindred. She had died in a far foreign land, And the murmur of an alien sea sounded about her grave. White marble tablets, Ornamented with weeping willow trees, Marked where Grandfather and Grandmother King were buried, And a single shaft of red scotch granite stood between the graves of Aunt Felicity and Uncle Felix. The story girl lingered to lay a bunch of wild violets, Misty blue and faintly sweet, On her mother's grave. Brave. And then she read aloud the verse on the stone. They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, And in their death they were not divided. The tones of her voice brought out the poignant and immortal beauty and pathos of that wonderful old lament. The girls wiped their eyes, And we boys felt as if we might have done so too, Had nobody been looking. What better epitaph could anyone wish than to have it said that he was lovely and pleasant in his life? When I heard the story girl read it, I made a secret compact with myself that I would try to deserve such an epitaph. I wish I had a family plot, Said Peter rather wistfully. I haven't anything. You fellows have. The Craigs are just buried anywhere they happen to die. I'd like to be buried here when I die, " said Felix. But I hope it won't be for a good while yet, He added in a livelier tone as we moved onward to the church. The interior of the church was as old-fashioned as its exterior. It was furnished with square box pews. The pulpit was a wine-glass one, And was reached by a steep, Narrow flight of steps. Uncle Alex Pugh was at the top of the church, Quite near the pulpit. Peter's appearance did not attract as much attention as we had fondly expected. Indeed, Nobody seemed to notice him at all. The lamps were not yet lighted and the church was filled with a soft twilight and hush. Outside, The sky was purple and gold. And silvery green. With a delicate tangle of rosy cloud above the elms. Isn't it awful nice and holy in here? Whispered Peter reverently. I didn't know church was like this. It's nice. Felicity frowned at him. And the story girl touched him with her slippered foot to remind him that he must not talk in church. Peter stiffened up and sat at attention during the service. Nobody could have behaved better. But when the sermon was over. . . And the collection was being taken up. He made the sensation which his entrance had not produced. Elder Fruin, A tall, Pale man with long, Sandy side whiskers, Appeared at the door of our pew with the collection plate. We knew Elder Thruan quite well, And liked him. He was Aunt Janet's cousin and often visited her. The contrast between his weekday jollity and the unearthly solemnity of his countenance on Sundays always struck us as very funny. It seemed so to strike Peter, For as Peter dropped his scent into the plate, He laughed aloud. Everybody looked at our pew. I have always wondered why Felicity did not die of mortification on the spot. The story girl turned white and Cecily turned red. As for that poor, Unlucky Peter, The shame of his countenance was pitiful to behold. He never lifted his head for the remainder of the service and he followed us down the aisle and across the graveyard like a beaten dog. None of us uttered a word until we reached the road lying in the white moonshine of the May night. Then Felicity broke the tense silence by remarking to the Story Girl, I. Hold you so! The story girl made no response. Peter sidled up to her. Awfully sorry, He said contritely. I never meant to laugh. It just happened before I could stop myself. It was this way. Don't you ever speak to me again, Said the story girl in a tone of cold, Concentrated fury. Go and be a Methodist or a Mohammedan or anything. I don't care what you are. You have humiliated me. She marched off with Sarah Ray. And Peter dropped back to us with a frightened face. I've done to her. He whispered. What is that? Big word mean? Never mind i said crossly for i felt that peter had disgraced us she's just Mad. And no wonder. Whatever made you act so crazy, Peter? Well, I didn't mean to. And I wanted to laugh twice before that and didn't. It was the story girl's stories made me want to laugh. So I don't think it's fair for her to be mad at me. She hadn't ought to tell me stories about people if she don't want me to laugh when I see them. When I looked at Samuel Ward. I thought of him getting up in meeting one night and praying that he might be guided in his upsetting and down rising. I remembered the way she took him off and I wanted to laugh. And then I looked at the pulpit and thought of the story she told about the old Scotch minister who was too fat to get in at the door of it and had to hiss to himself by his two hands over it. And then whisper to the other minister so that everybody heard him. This pulpit door was made for spirits. And I wanted to laugh and then Mr. Fruin come And I thought of her story about his side whiskers, How when his first wife died of inflammation of the lungs, He went courting Celia Ward. And Celia told him she wouldn't marry him unless he shaved them whiskers off. And he wouldn't, Just to be stubborn. And one day, One of them caught fire when he was burning brush and burned off. And everyone thought he'd have to shave the other off then, But he didn't. And just went round with one whisker till the burned one grew out. And then Celia gave in and took him because she saw there wasn't no hope of him ever giving in. I just remember that story and I thought. . . I could see him. Taking up the sense so solemn with one long whisker. And the laugh just laughed itself before I could help it. We all exploded with laughter on the spot. Much to the horror of Mrs. Abraham Ward, Who was just driving past. And who came up the next day and told Aunt Janet we had acted scandalous on the road home from church. We felt ashamed ourselves because we knew people should conduct themselves decently and in order on Sunday Fairings 4th, But. . . As with Peter, It had laughed itself. Even Felicity laughed. Felicity was not nearly so angry with Peter as might have been expected. She even walked beside him and let him carry her Bible. They talked quite confidentially. Perhaps she forgave him the more easily because. . . He had justified her in her predictions and thus afforded her a decided triumph over the story girl. I'm gonna keep on going to church. Peter told her. I like it. Sermons are more interesting than I thought and I like the singing. I wish I could make up my mind whether to be a Presbyterian or a Methodist. I suppose I might ask the ministers about it. Oh, No, No, Don't do that, Said Felicity in alarm. Ministers wouldn't want to be bothered with such questions. Why not? What are ministers for if they ain't to tell people how to get to heaven? Oh, Well. . . It's alright for grown-ups to ask them things, Of course, But. . . It isn't respectful for little boys, Especially hired boys. I don't see why. But anyhow, I suppose it wouldn't be much use because if he was a Presbyterian minister, He'd say, I ought to be a Presbyterian. And if he was a Methodist, He'd tell me to be one too. Look here. Felicity, What? Is the difference between them. I. . . I don't know, Said Felicity reluctantly. I suppose children can't understand such things. There must be a great deal of difference, Of course, If we only knew what it was. Anyhow, I am a Presbyterian and I'm glad of it. We walked on in silence for a time, Thinking our own young thoughts. Presently, They were scattered by an abrupt and startling question from Peter. What does God look like? He said. It appeared that none of us had any idea. The story girl would probably know, Said Cecily. I wish I knew, Said Peter gravely. I wish I could see a picture of God. It would make him seem lots more real. I've often wondered myself what he looks like, Said Felicity in a burst of confidence. Even in Felicity, So it would seem, There were depths of thought unplumbed. I've seen pictures of Jesus, Said Felix meditatively. He looks just like a man, Only better and kinder. But now that I come to think of it, I've never seen a picture of God. Well. . . If there isn't one in Toronto, Isn't likely there's one anywhere, Said Peter disappointedly. I saw a picture of the devil once, He added. It was in a book my Aunt Jane had. She got it for a prize in school. My Aunt Jane was clever. It couldn't have been a very good book if there was such a picture in it, Said Felicity. It was a real good book. My Aunt Jane wouldn't have a book that wasn't good, Retorted Peter sulkily. He refused to discuss the subject further. Somewhat to our disappointment, For we had never seen a picture of the person referred to and we were rather curious regarding it. We'll ask Peter to describe it sometime when he's in a better humor. Whispered Felix. Sarah Ray having turned in at her own gate, I ran ahead to join the story girl, And we walked up the hill together. She had recovered her calmness of mind, But she made no reference to Peter. When we reached our lane, And passed under Grandfather King's big willow, The fragrance of the orchard struck us in the face like a wave. We could see the long rows of trees, A white gladness in the moonshine. It seemed to us that there was in the orchard something different from other orchards that we had known. We were too young to analyse the vague sensation. In later years, We were to understand that it was because the orchard blossomed not only apple blossoms, But all the love, Faith, Joy, Pure happiness and pure sorrow of those who had made it and walked there. The orchard doesn't seem the same place by moonlight at all, Said the story girl dreamily. It's lovely. But it's different. When I was very small, I used to believe the fairies danced in it on moonlight nights. I would like to believe it now, But. . . I can't. Why not? Oh, It's so hard to believe things you know are not true. It was Uncle Edward who told me there were no such things as fairies. I was just seven. He is a minister, So of course I knew he spoke the truth. It was his duty to tell me, And I do not blame him, But. . . I have never felt quite the same to Uncle Edward since. Ah, Do we ever feel quite the same towards people who destroy our illusions? Shall I ever be able to forgive the brutal creature who first told me there was no such person as Santa Claus? He was a boy. Three years older than myself, And he may now, For aught I know, Be a most useful and respectable member of society, Beloved by his kind, But I know what he must ever seem to me. We waited at Uncle Alec's door for the others to come up. Peter was by way of skulking, Shamefacedly passed into the shadows. But the story girl's brief, Bitter anger had vanished. Wait for me, Peter, She called. She went over to him and held out her hand. I forgive you. She said graciously. Felix and I felt that it would really be worthwhile to offend her just to be forgiven in such an adorable voice. Peter eagerly grasped her hand. I tell you what, Story Girl, I'm awfully sorry. I laughed in church. But you needn't be afraid I ever will again. No sir. And I'm going to church and Sunday school regular. And I'll say my prayers every night. I want to be. Like the rest of you. And look here, I've thought of the way my Aunt Jane used to give medicine to a cat. You mix the powder in lard and spread it on his paws and his sides and he'll lick it off because a cat can't stand being messy. If Paddy isn't any better tomorrow, We'll do that. They went away together, Hand in hand, Children-wise, Up the lane of spruces, Crossed with bars of moonlight. And there was peace over all that fresh and flowery land. And peace in our little hearts. Chapter six, The mystery of Golden Milestone. Paddy was smeared with medicated lard the next day, All of us assisting at the right, Although the story girl was high priestess. Then, Out of regard for mats and cushions, He was kept in Durant's vial in the granary until he had licked his fur clean. This treatment, Being repeated every day for a week, Pat recovered his usual health and spirits, And our minds were set at rest to enjoy the next excitement, Collecting for a school library fund. Our teacher thought it would be an excellent thing to have a library in connection with the school and he suggested that each of the pupils should try to see how much money he or she could raise for the project during the month of June. We might earn it by honest toil or gather it in by contributions levied on our friends. The result. Was a determined rivalry as to which pupil should collect the largest sum. And this rivalry was especially intense in our home coterie. Our relatives started us with a quarter apiece. For the rest, We knew we must depend on our own exertions. Peter was handicapped at the beginning by the fact that he had no family friend to finance him. If my aunt Jane had been living, She'd have given me something, He remarked. And if my father hadn't run away, He might have given me something too. But I'm going to do the best I can anyhow. Your Aunt Olivia says I can have the job of gathering the eggs and I'm to have one egg out of every dozen to sell for myself. Felicity made a similar bargain with her mother. The Story Girl and Cecily were each to be paid ten cents a week for washing dishes in their respective homes. Felix and Dan contracted to keep the gardens free from weeds. I caught brook trout in the Westering Valley of spruces and sold them for a cent apiece. Sarah Ray was the only unhappy one among us. She could do nothing. She had no relatives in Carlisle except her mother and her mother did not approve of the school library project and would not give Sarah a cent. Or put her in any way of earning one. To Sarah, This was humiliation indescribable. She felt herself an outcast and an alien to our busy little circle where each member counted every day with miserly delight his slowly increasing horde of small cash. I'm just going to pray to God to send me some money, " she announced desperately at last. I don't believe that will do any good, Said Dan. He gives lots of things but. . . He doesn't give money because people can earn that for themselves. I can't, Said Sarah with passionate defiance. I think He ought to take that into account. Don't worry dear said Cecily who always poured balm. If you can't collect any money, Everybody will know it isn't your fault. I won't ever feel like reading a single book in the library if I can't give something to it, Mourned Sarah. Dan and the girls and I were sitting in a row on Aunt Olivia's garden fence, Watching Felix weed. Felix worked well, Although he did not like weeding. Fat boys never do, Felicity informed him. Felix pretended not to hear her. But I knew he did because his ears grew red. Felix's face never blushed, But his ears always gave him away. As for Felicity, She did not say things like that out of malice pretense. It never occurred to her that Felix did not like to be called fat. I always feel so sorry for the poor weeds, Said the story girl dreamily. It must be very hard to be rooted up. They shouldn't grow in the wrong place, Said Felicity mercilessly. When weeds go to heaven, I suppose they will be flowers, Continued the story girl. You do think such queer things, Said Felicity. A rich man in Toronto has a floral clock in his garden, I said. It looks just like the face of a clock and there are flowers in it that open at every hour so that you can always tell the time. Oh. "'I wish we had one here, ' exclaimed Cecily. "'What would be the use of it? ' asked the story girl, A little disdainfully. "'Nobody ever wants to know the time in a garden. ' I slipped away at this point, Suddenly remembering that it was time to take a dose of magic seed. I had bought it from Billy Robinson three days before in school. Billy had assured me that it would make me grow fast. I was beginning to feel secretly worried because I did not grow. I had overheard Aunt Janet say I was going to be short like Uncle Alec. Now, I loved Uncle Alec, But I wanted to be taller than he was. So when Billy confided to me under solemn promise of secrecy that he had some magic seed which would make boys grow and would sell me a box of it for 10 cents, I jumped at the offer. Billy was taller than any boy of his age in Carlisle and he assured me it all came from taking magic seed. I was a regular runt before I begun. He said, And look at me now. I got it from Peg Bowen. She's a witch, You know. I wouldn't go near her again for a bushel of magic seed. It was an AWFUL! Experience. I haven't much left. But I guess I have enough to do me till I'm as tall as I want to be. You must take a pinch of the seed every three hours walking backward and you must never tell a soul you're taking it or it won't work. I wouldn't spare any of it to anyone but you. I felt deeply grateful to Billy, And sorry that I had not liked him better. Somehow. Nobody did like Billy Robinson, Over and above. But I vowed I would like him in future. I paid him the 10 cents cheerfully and took the magic seed as directed, Measuring myself carefully every day by a mark on the hall door. I could not see any advance in growth yet, But then I had been taking it only three days. One day, The story girl had an inspiration. Let us go and ask the awkward man and Mr Campbell for a contribution to the library fund, She said. I am sure no one else has asked them because nobody in Carlisle is related to them. Let us all go. And if they give us anything, We'll divide it equally among us. It was a daring proposition. For both, Mr. Campbell and the Awkward Man were regarded as eccentric personages. And Mr. Campbell was supposed to detest children. But where the story girl led, We would follow to the death. The next day, Being Saturday, We started out in the afternoon. We took a shortcut to Golden Milestone over a long, Green, Dewy land full of placid meadows where sunshine had fallen asleep. At first, All was not harmonious. Felicity was in an ill humour. She had wanted to wear her second best dress, But Aunt Janet had decreed that her school clothes were good enough to go traipsing about in the dust. Then the story girl arrived, Arrayed not in any second best, But in her very best dress and hat which her father had sent her from Paris. A dress of soft crimson silk and a white leghorn hat encircled by flame red poppies. Neither Felicity nor Cecily could have worn it, But it became the story girl perfectly. In it, She was a thing of fire and laughter and glow, As if the singular charm of her temperament were visible and tangible in its vivid colouring and silken texture. I shouldn't think you'd put on your best clothes to go begging for the library in. Said Felicity cuttingly. Aunt Olivia says that when you are going to have an important interview with a man, You ought to look your very best, Said the story girl, Giving her skirt a lustrous swirl and enjoying the effect. Aunt Olivia spoils you, Said Felicity. She doesn't either, Felicity. King. Aunt Olivia is just sweet. She kisses me goodnight every night. And your mother never kisses you. My mother doesn't make kisses so common, Retorted Felicity, But she gives us pie for dinner every day. So does Aunt Olivia. Yes, But. . . Look at the difference in the size of the pieces and Aunt Olivia only gives you skim milk, My mother gives us cream. Aunt Olivia's skim milk is as good as your mother's cream, Cried the story girl hotly. Oh, Girls, Don't fight, " said Cecily, The peacemaker. It's such a nice day, And we'll have a nice time if You don't spoil it by fighting. We're not fighting, " said Felicity. And I like Aunt Olivia, But My mother is just as good as Aunt Olivia there now. Of course she is. Aunt Janet is splendid, Agreed the story girl. They smiled at each other amicably. Felicity and the Story Girl were really quite fond of each other under the queer surface friction that commonly resulted from their intercourse. You said once you knew a story about the awkward man, Said Felix. You might tell it to us? All right, Agreed the story girl. The only trouble is, I don't know the whole story. But I'll tell you all I do know. I call it the mystery of the golden milestone. Oh, I don't believe that story is true, Said Felicity. I believe Mrs Griggs was just romancing. She does romance, Mother said. Yes, But I don't believe she could ever have thought of such a thing as this herself, So I believe it must be true, Said the story girl. Anyway, This is the story, Boys. You know the awkward man has lived alone ever since his mother died 10 years ago. Abel Griggs is his hired man and he and his wife live in a little house down the awkward man's lane. Mrs. Griggs makes his bread for him and she cleans up his house now and then. She says he keeps it very neat. But till last fall, There was one room she never saw. It was always locked. The West One, Looking out over his garden, One day last fall, The awkward man went to Summerside and Mrs Griggs scrubbed his kitchen. Then she went over the whole house and she tried the door of the west room. Mrs Griggs is a very curious woman. Uncle Roger says all women have as much curiosity as is good for them, But Mrs Griggs has more. She expected to find the door locked as usual. It was not. Locked. She opened it and went in. What do you suppose she found? Something like. . . Like. . . Bluebeard's chamber? Suggested Felix in a scared tone. Oh! No! No! Nothing like that could happen in Prince Edward Island. But if there had been beautiful wives hanging up by their hair all round the walls, I don't believe Mrs Griggs could have been much more astonished. The room. Had never been furnished in his mother's time, But now. . . It was elegantly furnished. Though Mrs. Griggs says she doesn't know when or how that furniture was brought there. She says she never saw a room like it in a country farmhouse. It was like a bedroom and sitting room combined. The floor was covered with a carpet like green velvet. There were fine lace curtains at the windows and beautiful beautiful pictures on the walls. There was a little white bed, And a dressing table, A bookcase full of books, A stand with a work basket on it, And a rocking chair. There was a woman's picture above the bookcase. Mrs. Griggs says she thinks it was a coloured photograph, But she didn't know who it was. Anyway, It was a very pretty girl. But the most amazing thing of all was that a woman's dress was hanging over a chair by the table. Mrs. Griggs says it never belonged to Jasper Dale's mother, For she thought it a sin to wear anything but print and drug it, And this dress was of pale blue silk. Besides that, There was a pair of blue satin slippers on the floor beside it. High-heeled slippers. And on the fly leaves of the books, The name Alice was written. Now, There never was an Alice in the Dale connection, And nobody ever heard of the awkward man having a sweetheart. There! Isn't that a lovely mystery? It's a pretty queer yarn, Said Felix. I wonder if it is true. And what it means. I intend to find out what it means, Said the story girl. I am going to get acquainted with the awkward man sometime and then I'll find out his Alice secret. I don't see how you'll ever get acquainted with him, Said Felicity. He never goes anywhere except to church. He just stays home and reads books when he isn't working. Mother says he is a perfect hermit. I'll manage it somehow, Said the story girl. And we had no doubt that she would. But I must wait until I'm a little older. For he wouldn't tell the secret of the West Room to a little girl. And I mustn't wait till I'm too old for he is frightened of grown-up girls because he thinks they laugh at his awkwardness. I know I will like him too. He has such a nice face. Even if he is awkward, He looks like a man you could tell things to. Well, I'd like a man who could move around without falling over his own feet, Said Felicity. And then, The look of him! Uncle Roger says he is long, Lank, Lean, Narrow and contracted. Things always sound worse than they are when Uncle Roger says them, Said the story girl. Uncle Edward says Jasper Dale is a very clever man and it's a great pity he wasn't able to finish his college course. He went to college two years, You know. Then his father died and he stayed home with his mother because she was very delicate. I call him a hero. I wonder if it is true that he writes poetry. Mrs. Grigg says it is. She says she has seen him writing it in a brown book. She said she couldn't get near enough to read it, But she knew it was poetry by the shape of it. Very likely. If that blue silk dress story is true, I'd believe anything of him, " said Felicity. We were near Golden Milestone now. The house was a big, Weather-grey structure. Overgrown with vines and climbing roses. Something about the three square windows in the second story gave it an appearance of winking at us in a friendly fashion through its vines. At least, So the story girl said, And indeed we could see it for ourselves after she had once pointed it out to us. We did not get into the house, However. We met the awkward man in his yard and he gave us a quarter apiece for our library. He did not seem awkward or shy, But then we were only children and his foot was on his native heath. He was a tall, Slender man who did not look his 40 years. So unwrinkled was his high, White forehead, So clear and lustrous his large, Dark blue eyes. Free from silver threads his rather long black hair. He had large hands and feet and walked with a slight stoop. I am afraid we stared at him rather rudely while the story girl talked to him. But was not an awkward man who was also a hermit and kept blue silk dresses in a locked room and possibly wrote poetry a legitimate object of curiosity? I leave it to you. When we got away, We compared notes and found that we all liked him. And this, Although he had said little and had appeared somewhat glad to get rid of us, He gave us the money like a gentleman, Said the story girl. I felt he didn't grudge it. And now for Mr Campbell. It was on his account I put on my red silk. I don't suppose the awkward man noticed it at all, But Mr. Campbell will, Or I'm much mistaken. Chapter 7 How Betty Sherman Won a Husband The rest of us did not share the Story Girl's enthusiasm regarding our call on Mr Campbell. We secretly dreaded it. If, As was said, He detested children. Who knew what sort of a reception we might meet? Mr. Campbell was a rich, Retired farmer who took life easily. He had visited New York and Boston, Toronto and Montreal. He had even been as far as the Pacific coast. Therefore, He was regarded in Carlisle as a much-travelled man. And he was known to be well read and intelligent. But it was also known that Mr Campbell was not always in a good humour. If he liked you, There was nothing he would not do for you. If he disliked you, Well, You were not left in ignorance of it. In short, We had the impression that Mr. Campbell resembled the famous little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead. When he was good, He was very, Very good. And when he was bad, He was horrid. What if this were one of his horrid days? He can't do anything to us, You know, Said the story girl. He may be rude, But that won't hurt anyone but himself. Hard words break no bones, Observed Felicity philosophically, But they hurt your feelings. I am afraid of Mr Campbell, Said Cecily candidly. Perhaps we'd better give up and go home, Suggested Dan. You can go home if you like, Said the story girl scornfully. I am going to see Mr. Campbell. I know I can manage him. But if I have to go alone, And he gives me anything, I'll keep it all for my own collection, Mind you. That settled it. We were not going to let the story girl get ahead of us in the manner of collecting. Mr. Campbell's housekeeper ushered us into his parlour and left us. Presently, Mr. Campbell himself was standing in the doorway, Looking us over. We took heart of grace. It seemed to be one of his good days. For there was a quizzical smile on his broad, Clean-shaven, Strongly featured face. Mr. Campbell was a tall man with a massive head, Well thatched with thick black hair, Grey streaked. He had big black eyes with many wrinkles around them and a thin, Firm, Long-lipped mouth. We thought him handsome for an old man. His gaze wandered over us with uncomplimentary indifference. Until it fell on the story girl, Leaning back in an armchair. She looked like a slender red lily in the unstudied grace of her attitude. A spark flashed into Mr. Campbell's black eyes. Is this a Sunday school deputation? He inquired rather ironically. No, We have come to ask a favour of you, Said the story girl. The magic of her voice worked its will on Mr Campbell as on all others. He came in, Sat down, Hooked his thumb into his vest pocket and smiled at her. What is it? He asked. We are collecting for our school library and we have called to ask you for a contribution. She replied. Why should I contribute to your school library? Demanded Mr. Campbell. This was a poser for us. Why should he? Indeed. But the story girl was quite equal to it. Leaning forward and throwing an arm. Indescribable witchery into tone and eyes and smile, She said, Because a lady asks you. Mr. Campbell chuckled. The best of all reasons, He said. But see here, My dear young lady, I'm an old miser and curmudgeon, As you may have heard. I hate to part with my money, Even for a good reason, And I never. . . Part with any of it unless I am to receive some benefit from the expenditure. What earthly good could I get from your 3x6 school library? None. Whatever. But. . . I shall make you a fair offer. I have heard from my housekeeper's urchin of a son, That you are a master hand to tell stories. Tell me one. Here and now. I shall pay you in proportion to the entertainment you afford me. Come now, And do your prettiest. There was a fine mockery in his tone that put the story girl on her metal instantly. She sprang to her feet, An amazing change coming over her. Her eyes flashed and burned. Crimson spots glowed in her cheeks. I shall tell you the story of the Sherman girls and how Betty Sherman won a husband. She said. We. Gosped. Was the story girl crazy? Or had she forgotten that Betty Sherman was Mr. Campbell's own great-grandmother? And that her method of winning a husband was not exactly in accordance with maidenly traditions? But Mr. Campbell. . . Chuckled again. An excellent test, He said. If you can amuse me with that story, You must be a wonder. I've heard it so often that it has no more interest for me than the alphabet. One cold winter day, 80 years ago. Began the story goal without further parley. Donald Fraser was sitting by the window of his new house. Playing his fiddle for company. And looking out over the white frozen bay before his door. It was bitter. Bitter cold, And a storm was brewing. But, Storm or no storm, Donald meant to go over the bay that evening to see Nancy Sherman. He was thinking of her as he played Annie Laurie, For Nancy was more beautiful than the lady of the song. Her face, It is the fairest that e'er the sun shone on, Hummed Donald, And oh! He thought so too. He did not know whether Nancy cared for him or not. He had many rivals. But he knew that if she would not come to be the mistress of his new house, No one else ever should. So. He sat there that afternoon and dreamed of her. As he played sweet old songs and rollicking jigs on his fiddle. While he was playing, A sleigh drove up to the door, And Neil Campbell came in. Donald was not overly glad to see him, For he suspected where he was going. Neil Campbell, Who was Highland Scotch and lived down at Berwick, Was courting Nancy Sherman too. And what was far worse, Nancy's father favoured him, Because he was a richer man than Donald Fraser. But Donald was not going to show all he thought. Scotch people never do. And he pretended to be very glad to see Neil and made him heartily welcome. Neil sat down by the roaring fire, Looking quite well satisfied with himself, It was ten miles from Berwick to the Bayshore, And a call at a halfway house was just the thing. Then Donald brought out the whiskey. They always did that 80 years ago, You know. If you were a woman, You could give your visitors a dish of tea. But if you were a man and did not offer them a taste of whiskey, You were thought either very mean or very ignorant. You look cold, Said Donald in his great hearty voice. Sit nearer the fireman and put a bit of warmth in your veins. It's bitter cold today. End now. Tell me the Berwick news. Has Jean McLean made up with her man yet? And is it true that Sandy Macquarie is to marry Kate Ferguson? Twill be a match now. Sure, With her red hair, Sandy will not be like to lose his bride past finding. Neil had plenty of news to tell. And the more whiskey he drank, The more he told. He didn't notice that Donald was not taking much. Neil talked on and on, And of course he soon began to tell things it would have been much wiser not to tell. Finally, He told Donald that he was going over the bay to ask Nancy Sherman that very night to marry him. And if she would have him, Then Donald and all the folks should see a wedding that was a wedding. Oh, Wasn't Donald taken aback? This was more than he had expected. Neil hadn't been courting Nancy very long. And Donald never dreamed he would propose to her quite so soon. At first, Donald didn't know what to do. He felt sure, Deep down in his heart, That Nancy liked him. She was very shy and modest, But you know, A girl can let a man see she likes him without going out of her way. But Donald knew that if Neil proposed first, He would have the best chance. Neil was rich and the Shermans were poor and old Elias Sherman would have the most say in the matter if he told Nancy she must take Neil Campbell She would never dream of disobeying him. Old Elias Sherman was a man who had to be obeyed. But if Nancy had only promised someone else first, Her father would not make her break her word. Wasn't it a hard plight for poor Donald? But. . . He was a Scotchman, You know. And it's pretty hard to stick a Scotchman long. Presently, A twinkle came into his eyes, For he remembered that all was fair in love and war. So he said to Neil, Oh, So persuasively, Have some more, Man, Have some more. It will keep the heart in you in the teeth of that wind. Help yourself. There's plenty more where that came from. Neil didn't want much persuasion. He took some more, And said slyly, Is it going over the bay the night that yourself will be doing? Donald shook his head. I had thought of it, He owned, But it looks a wee like a storm, And my sleigh is at the blacksmith's to be shod. If I went, It must be on Black Dan's back, And he likes a canter over the ice in a snowstorm as little as I. His own fireside is the best place for a man tonight, Campbell. Have another taste, Man. Have another taste. Neil went on tasting and that sly Donald sat there with a sober face but laughing eyes and coaxed him on. At last, Neil's head fell forward on his breast and he was sound asleep. Donald got up. Put on his overcoat and cap. And went to the door. May your sleep be long and sweet, Man, " he said, Laughing softly. And as for the waking, It will be betwixt you and me. With that. He untied Neil's horse. Climbed into Neil's sleigh and tucked Neil's buffalo robe about him. Now Bess, Old girl, Do your bonniest, He said. There's more than you know hangs on your speed. If the Campbell wakes too soon, Black Dan could show you a pair of clean heels for all your good start. On my girl! Brown Bess Went Over the Ice Like a Deer What he should say to Nancy. And more still of what she would say to him. Suppose. . . He was mistaken. Suppose she said no. Neil would have the laugh on me then. Sure, He's sleeping well, And the snow is coming soon. There'll be a bonnie swirl on the bay ere long. I hope no harm will come to the lad if he starts to cross. When he wakes, He'll be in such a fine highland temper that he'll never stop to think of danger. Well. . . Bess, Old girl, Here we are. Now, Donald Fraser, Pluck up heart and play the man. Never flinch. Because a slip of a lass looks scornful at you out of the bonniest dark blue eyes on earth. But in spite of his bold words. Donald's heart was thumping as he drove into the Sherman yard. Nancy was there milking a cow by the stable door. But she stood up when she saw Donald coming. Oh, She was very beautiful. Her hair was like a skein of golden silk. And her eyes were as blue as the gulf water when the sun breaks out after a storm. Donald felt more nervous than ever. But he knew he must make the most of his chance. He might not see Nancy alone again before Neil came. He caught her hand and stammered out, Nan, Lass. I love you. You may think tis a hasty wooing, But that's a story I can tell you later, Maybe. I know well I'm not worthy of you, But if true love could make a man worthy, There'd be none before me. Will you have me, Nan? Nancy didn't say she would have him. She just looked it. And Donald kissed her right there in the snow. The next morning, The storm was over. Donald knew Neil must be soon on his track. He did not want to make the Sherman house the scene of a quarrel, So he resolved to get away before the Campbell came. He persuaded Nancy to go with him to visit some friends in another settlement. As he brought Neil's sleigh up to the door, He saw a black speck far out on the bay and laughed. Black Dan goes well, But he'll not be quick enough, He said. Half an hour later, Neil Campbell rushed into the Sherman kitchen and Oh, How angry he was! There was nobody there but Betty Sherman. And Betty was not afraid of him. She was never afraid of anybody. She was very handsome, With hair as brown as October nuts, And black eyes, And crimson cheeks. And she had always been in love with Neil Campbell herself. Good morning, Mr Campbell, She said with a toss of her head. It's early abroad you are, And on Black Dan, No less. Was I mistaken in thinking that Donald Fraser said once that his favourite horse should never be backed by any man but him? But doubtless a fair exchange is no robbery and Brown Bess is a good mare in her way. Where is Donald Fraser? Said Neil, Shaking his fist. It's him I'm seeking, And it's him I will be finding. Where is he, Betty Sherman? Donald Fraser is far enough away by this time, Mocked Betty. He is a prudent fellow and has some quickness of wit under that sandy thatch of his. He came here last night at sunset with a horse and sleigh not his own or lately gotten and he asked Nan in the stable yard to marry him. Did a man ask me to marry him at the cow's side with a milking pail in my hand? It's a cold answer he'd get for his pains. But Nan thought differently. And they sat late together last night, And t'was a bonny story Nan wakened me to hear when she came to bed. The story of a braw lover who let his secret out when the whiskey was above the wit and then fell asleep while his rival was a way to woo and win. His lass. Did you ever hear a like story, Mr Campbell? Oh yes, Said Neil fiercely. It is laughing at me. Over the countryside and telling that story that Donald Fraser will be doing. Is it? But when I meet him, It is not laughing he will be doing. Oh no. There will be another story to tell. Now, Don't meddle with the man, Cried Betty. What a state to be in, Because one good-looking lass likes sandy hair and grey eyes better than Highland black and blue. You have not the spirit of a wren, Neil Campbell. Were I you, I would show Donald Fraser that I could woo and win alas as speedily as any lowlander of them all. That I would. There's many a girl would gladly say yes for your asking. And here stands one. Why not marry me, Neil Campbell? Folks say I'm as bonny as Nan. And I could love you as well as Nan loves her Donald? Aye, And ten times better. What do you suppose the Campbell did? Why? Just the thing he ought to have done. He took Betty at her word on the spot and there was a double wedding soon after. And it is said that Neil and Betty were the happiest couple in the world. Happier even than Donald and Nancy. So? All was well because it ended well. The story girl curtsied until her silken skirts swept the floor. Then she flung herself in the chair and looked at Mr. Campbell, Flushed, Triumphant, Daring. The story was old to us. It had once been published in a Charlottetown paper. And we had read in Aunt Olivia's scrapbook. Where the story girl had learned it. But we had listened entranced. I have written down the bare words of the story as she told it, But I can never reproduce the charm and colour and spirit she infused into it. It lived for us. Donald and Neil, Nancy and Betty were there in that room with us. We saw the flashes of expression on their faces. We heard their voices. Angry or tender, Mocking or merry, In lowland and highland accent, We realised all the mingled coquetry and feeling and defiance and archness in Betty Sherman's daring speech. We had even forgotten all about Mr. Campbell. That gentleman, In silence, Took out his wallet, Extracted a note therefrom, And handed it gravely to the story girl. There are five dollars for you, He said, And your story. Was well worth it. You are a wonder. Someday, You will make the world realise it. I've been about a bit and heard some good things but I've never enjoyed anything more. Than that threadbare old story I heard in my cradle. And now. Will you do me a favour? Of course, Said the delighted story girl. Recite. The multiplication table for me. Said Mr. Campbell. We. Stared. Well, Might Mr. Campbell be called? Eccentric. What on earth did he want the multiplication table recited for? Even the story girl was surprised. But she began promptly with twice one and went through it to twelve times twelve. She repeated it simply, But her voice changed from one tone to another as each in succession grew tired. We had never dreamed that there was so much in the multiplication table. As she announced it, The fact that 3 x 3 was 9 was exquisitely ridiculous. Five times six? Almost brought tears to our eyes. 8 x 7 was the most tragic and frightful thing ever heard of, And twelve times twelve rang like a trumpet call to victory. Mr. Campbell nodded his satisfaction. I thought you could do it, " he said. The other day, I found this statement in a book. Her voice would have made the multiplication table charming. I thought of it when I heard yours. I didn't believe it before, But I do now. Then he let us go. You see, Said the story girl as we went home, You need never be afraid of people. But we are not all story girls, " said Cecily. That night, We heard Felicity talking to Cecily in their room. Mr. Campbell never noticed one of us except the story girl, " she said. But if I had put on my best dress as she did, Maybe she wouldn't have taken all the attention. Could you? Ever do what Betty Sherman did, Do you suppose? " asked Cecily absently. No, But I believe the story girl could, Answered Felicity rather snappishly. Chapter Eight A Tragedy of Childhood The story girl went to Charlottetown for a week in June to visit Aunt Louisa. Life seemed very colourless without her, And even Felicity admitted that it was lonesome. But three days after her departure, Felix told us something on the way home from school, Which lent some spice to existence immediately. What do you think? He said in a very solemn yet excited tone. Jerry Cohen told me at recess this afternoon that he had seen a picture of God. That he has it at home in an old, Red-covered history of the world and has looked at it often. To think. The Jerry Cowan. Should have seen such a picture often. We were as deeply impressed as Felix had meant us to be. Did he say what it was like? Asked Peter. Only that it was a picture of God walking in the Garden of Eden. Oh. Whispered felicity. We all spoke in low tones on the subject, For, By instinct and training, We thought and uttered the great name with reverence, In spite of our devouring curiosity Oh. Would Jerry Cohen bring it to school and let us see it? I asked him that, Soon as ever he told me, " said Felix. He said he might, But he couldn't promise, For he'd have to ask his mother if he could bring the book to school. If she'll let him, He'll bring it tomorrow. Oh. . . I'll be almost afraid to look at it, " said Sarah Ray tremulously. I think we all shared her fear to some extent. Nevertheless, We went to school the next day, Burning with curiosity. And. . . We were disappointed. Possibly Knight had brought counsel to Jerry Cohen? Or perhaps his mother had put him up to it. At all events, He announced to us that he couldn't bring the red-covered history to school, But if we wanted to buy the picture outright, He would tear it out of the book and sell it to us for 50 cents. We talked the matter over. In serious conclave in the orchard that evening. We were all rather short of hard cash, Having devoted most of our spare means to the school library fund. But the general consensus of opinion was that we must have the picture. No matter what pecuniary sacrifices were involved. If we could each give about seven cents, We would have the amount. Peter could only give 4, But Dan gave 11, Which squared matters. 50 cents would be pretty dear for any other picture, But of course this is different, Said Dan. And there's a picture of Eden thrown in too, You know, Added Felicity. Fancy selling gods? Picture, " said Cecily in a shocked, Awed tone. Nobody but a coen would do it, And that's a fact, Said Dan. When we get it, We'll keep it in the family Bible, " said Felicity. That's the only proper place. Ugh. I wonder what it will be like, Breathed Cecily. We all wondered. Next day in school. We agreed to Jerry Cohen's terms, And Jerry promised to bring the picture up to Uncle Alex the following afternoon. We were all intensely excited Saturday morning. To our dismay, It began to rain just before dinner. What if Jerry doesn't bring the picture today because of the rain? I suggested. Never you fear, Answered Felicity decidedly, A Cohen would come through anything for 50 cents. After dinner, We all, Without any verbal discussion about it, Washed our faces and combed our hair. The girls put on their second best dresses, And we boys donned white collars. We all had the unuttered feeling that we must do such honour to that picture as we could. Felicity and Dan began a small spat over something but stopped at once when Cecily said severely, How? How dare you! Horror! When you are going to look at a picture of God today. Owing to the rain, We could not foregather in the orchard where we had meant to transact the business with Jerry. We did not wish our grown-ups around at our great moment. So we betook ourselves to the loft of the granary in the spruce wood, From whose window we could see the main road and hail Jerry. Sarah Ray had joined us, Very pale and nervous, Having had, So it appeared, A difference of opinion with her mother about coming up the hill in the rain. I'm afraid I did very wrong to come against Ma's will. She said miserably, But I couldn't wait. I wanted to see the picture as soon as you did. We waited and watched at the window. The valley was full of mist and the rain was coming down in slanting lines over the tops of the spruces. But, As we waited, The clouds broke away and the sun came out flashingly. The drops on the spruce boughs glittered like diamonds. I don't believe Jerry can be coming, " said Cecily in despair. I suppose his mother must have thought it was Dreadful, After all, To sell such a picture. There he is now! Cried Dan, Waving excitedly from the window. He's carrying a fish basket, " said Felicity. You surely don't suppose he would bring that? Picture. In a fish basket. Jerry had brought it in a fish basket. As appeared when he mounted the granary stairs shortly afterwards. It was folded up in a newspaper packet on top of the dried herring with which the basket was filled. We paid him his money. But we would not open the packet until he had gone. Cecily said Felicity in a hushed tone. You are the best of us all. You open the parcel. I'm no gooder than the rest of you. Breathed Cecily. I'll open it if you like. With trembling fingers, Cecily opened the parcel. We stood around hardly. Breathing. She unfolded it and held it up. We saw it. Suddenly, Sarah? Began to cry. Oh? Oh. How does. . . God. Look. Like that, She wailed. Felix and I spoke not. Disappointment and something worse sealed our speech did. God look like that Like that stern, Angrily frowning old man with the tossing hair and beard of the woodcut Cecily held? I suppose he must, Since that is his picture, " said Dan miserably. He looks awful cross, Said Peter simply. Oh. I wish we'd never, Never seen it, Cried Cecily. We all wished that. Too late. Our curiosity had led us into some Holy of Holies. Not to be profaned by human eyes and this was our punishment. I've always had a feeling. Right along. Wept Sarah that it wasn't right. To bye. Or look at God's picture. As we stood there wretchedly, We heard flying feet below and a blithe voice calling, Where are you children? The Story Girl had returned! At any other moment we would have rushed to meet her in wild joy, But now we were too crushed and miserable to move. Whatever is the matter with you all? Demanded the story girl, Appearing at the top of the stairs. What is Sarah crying about? What have you got there? A picture of God, " said Cecily with a sob in her voice, And oh! It is so dreadful and ugly. Look! Let the story go, Look. An expression of scorn came over her face. Surely you don't believe God looks like that, She said impatiently while her fine eyes flashed. He doesn't. He couldn't. He is wonderful and beautiful. I'm surprised at you. That is nothing but the picture of a cross-old man. Hope sprang up in our hearts. Although we were not wholly convinced. I don't know, Said Dan dubiously. It says under the picture, God in the Garden of Eden. It's printed. Well, I suppose that's what the man who drew it thought God was like. Answered the story goal carelessly. But he couldn't have known any more than you do. He had never seen him. It's all very well for you to say so, Said Felicity, But you don't know either. I wish I could believe that. Isn't like God. But I don't know what to believe. Well, If you won't believe me, I suppose you'll believe the minister, Said the story girl. Go and ask him. He's in the house this very minute. He came up with us in the buggy. At any other time, We would never have dared. Catechise the minister about anything, But. . . Desperate cases call for desperate measures. We drew straws to see who should go and do the asking and the lot fell to Felix. Better wait until Mr Marwood leaves and catch him in the lane, Advised the story girl. You'll have a lot of grown-ups around you in the house. Felix took her advice. Mr Marwood, Presently walking benignantly along the lane, Was confronted by a fat small boy with a pale face but resolute eyes. The rest of us remained in the background but within hearing. Well, Felix, What is it? " asked Mr Marwood kindly. Please, Sir. Does. God. Really, Look. Like this? Asked Felix, Holding out the picture. We hope. He doesn't, But we do. Want to know the truth and That is why I'm bothering you. Please excuse us and tell me. The minister looked at the picture. A stern expression came into his gentle blue eyes. And he got as near to frowning as it was possible for him to get. Where did you get that thing? He asked. Thing? We begin to breathe easier. We bought it from. . . Jerry Cohen. Found it in a red-covered history of the world. It says it's God's picture. Said Felix. "'It is nothing of the sort, ' said Mr Marwood indignantly. There is no such thing as a picture of God, Felix. No human being knows what he looks like. No human being can! No. We should not even try to think what he looks like. At Felix. You may be sure. That God is in you. Infinitely more beautiful and loving and tender and kind than anything we can imagine of him. Never believe anything else, My boy. As for this? This? Sacrilege? Take it and burn it. We did not know what a sacrilege meant, But we knew that Mr. Marwood had declared that the picture was not like God. That was enough for us. We felt as if a terrible weight had been lifted from our minds. I could hardly believe the story, Girl, But of course, The minister knows, Said Dan happily. We've lost 50 cents because of it, Said Felicity gloomily. We had lost something of infinitely more value than 50 cents. Although we did not realise it just then. The minister's words had removed from our minds the bitter belief that God was like that picture, But on Something. Deeper and more enduring than mind, An impression had been made that was never to be removed. The mischief was done. From that day to this, The thought or the mention of God brings up before us involuntarily. The vision of a stern, Angry old man. Such was the price we were to pay for the indulgence of a curiosity which each of us Deep in our hearts had, Like Sarah Ray, Felt, Ought not to be gratified. Mr Marwood told me to burn it, " said Felix. It doesn't seem reverent to do that, " said Cecily. Even if it isn't God's picture, It has his name on it. Bury it, Said the story girl. We did bury it after tea in the depths of the spruce grove and then we went into the orchard. It was so nice to have the story girl back again. She had wreathed her hair with Canterbury bells and looked like the incarnation of rhyme and story and dream. Canterbury Bells is a lovely name for a flower, Isn't it? She said. It makes you think of cathedrals and chimes, Doesn't it? Let's go over to Uncle Stephen's walk and sit on the branches of the big tree. It's too wet on the grass. And I know a story. A true story about an old lady I saw in town at Aunt Louisa's. Such a dear old lady with lovely silvery curls. After the rain, The air seemed dripping with odours in the warm west wind, The tang of fir balsam, The spice of mint, The wild woodsiness of ferns, The aroma of grasses steeping in the sunshine, And with it all, A breath of wild sweetness from from far hill pastures. Scattered through the grass in Uncle Stephen's walk were blossoming, Pale, Aerial flowers, Which had no name that we could ever discover. Nobody seemed to know anything about them. They had been there when Great Grandfather King bought the place. I've never seen them elsewhere, Or found them described in any floral catalogue. We called them the White Ladies. The story girl gave them the name. She said they looked like the souls of good women who had had to suffer much and had been very patient. They were wonderfully dainty, With a strange, Faint, Aromatic perfume which was only to be detected at a little distance and vanished if you bent over them. They faded soon after they were plucked, And although strangers greatly admiring them often carried away roots and seeds, They could never be coaxed to grow elsewhere. My story is about Mrs Dunbar and the captain of the Fanny, Said the story girl, Settling herself comfortably on a bow with her brown head against a gnarled trunk. It's sad and beautiful and true. I do love to tell stories that I know really happened. Mrs Dunbar lives next door to Aunt Louisa in town. She is so sweet. You wouldn't think to look at her that she had a tragedy in her life, But she has. Aunt Louisa told me the tale. It all happened long, Long ago. Interesting things like this all did happen long ago, It seems to me. They never seem to happen now. This was in 49, When people were rushing to the gold fields in California. It was just like a fever, Aunt Louise says. People took it right here on the island and a number of young men determined they would go to California. It is easy to go to California now, But it was a very different matter then. There were no railroads across the land as there are now. And if you wanted to go to California, You had to go in a sailing vessel all the way around Cape Horn. It was a long and dangerous journey. And sometimes it took over six months. When you got there, You had no way of sending word home again, Except by the same plan. It might be over a year. Before your people at home heard a word about you. And fancy what their feelings would be. But these young men. . . Didn't think of these things. They were led on by a golden vision. They made all their arrangements and they chartered the brig, Fanny, To take them to California. The captain of the fanny is the hero of my story. His name was Alan Dunbar and he was young and handsome. Heroes always are, You know, But Aunt Louisa says he really was. And he was in love, Wildly in love, With Margaret Grant. Margaret was as beautiful as a dream, With soft blue eyes and clouds of golden hair, And she loved Alan Dunbar just as much as he loved her. But her parents were bitterly opposed to him. And they had forbidden Margaret to see him or speak to him. They hadn't anything against him as a man. But they didn't want her to throw herself away. On a sailor. Well, When Alan Dunbar knew that he must go to California in the fanny, He was in despair. He knew that he could never go so far away for so long and leave his Margaret behind. And Margaret felt that she could never let him go. I know exactly how she felt. How can you know? Interrupted Peter suddenly. You ain't old enough to have a bow. How can you know? The story girl looked at Peter with a frown. She did not like to be interrupted when telling a story. Those are not things one knows about, She said with dignity. One feels about them. Peter, Crushed but not convinced, Subsided and the story girl went on. Finally, Margaret ran away with Alan, And they were married in Charlottetown. Alan intended to take his wife with him to California in the fanny. If it was a hard journey for a man. It was hard as still for a woman. But Margaret would have dared anything for Alan's sake. They had three days. Only three days of happiness, And then the blow fell. The crew and the passengers of the Fanny refused to let Captain Dunbar take his wife with him. They told him he must leave her behind. And all his prayers were of no avail They say he stood on the deck of the fanny and pleaded with the men. While the tears ran down his face. But they would not yield, And he had to leave Margaret behind. What a parting it was! There was heartbreak in the story girl's voice. And tears came into our eyes. There. In the green bower of Uncle Stephen's Wharf. We cried. Over the pathos of a parting. Whose anguish had been stilled for many years. When it was all over. Margaret's father and mother forgave her and she went back home to wait. To wait. Oh, It is so dreadful just to wait. And do nothing else. Margaret waited for nearly a year. How long it must have seemed to her. And at last, There came a letter. But not from Alan. Alan. Was dead. He had died in California. And had been buried there. While Margaret had been thinking of him and longing for him and praying for him, He had been lying in his lonely, Far away grave. Cecily sprang up, Shaking with sobs. Oh, Don't! Don't go on, " she implored. I can't bear any more. There is no more. Said the story girl. That was the end of it. The end of everything for Margaret. It didn't kill her, But her heart died. I just wish I'd older those fellows who wouldn't let the captain take his wife, " said Peter savagely. Well. . . It was awful said said felicity wiping her eyes but It was long ago. And we can't do any good by crying over it now. Let us go and. . . Get something to eat. I made some nice little rhubarb tarts this morning. We went. In spite of new disappointments and old heartbreaks, We had appetites, And Felicity did make scrumptious rhubarb tarts. Chapter Nine Magic Seed When the time came to hand in our collections for the library fund, Peter had the largest, Three dollars. Felicity was a good second with two and a half. This was simply because the hens had laid so well. If you'd had to pay father for all the extra handfuls of wheat you fed to those hens, Miss Felicity, You wouldn't have so much, Said Dan spitefully. I didn't, " said Felicity indignantly. Look how Aunt Olivia's hens laid, Too. And she fed them herself, Just the same as usual. Never mind, Said Cecily, We have all got something to give. If you were like poor Sarah Ray and hadn't been able to collect anything, You might feel bad. But Sarah Ray had something to give. She came up the hill after tea, All radiant. When Sarah Ray smiled, And she did not waste her smiles, She was rather pretty in a plaintive, Apologetic way. A dimple or two came into sight. And she had very nice teeth, Small and white, Like the traditional row of pearls. Oh, Just look, She said. Here are three dollars and I'm going to give it all to the library fund. I had a letter today from Uncle Arthur in Winnipeg and he sent me three dollars. He said I was to use it any way I liked, So Ma couldn't refuse to let me give it to the fund. She thinks it's an awful waste, But she always goes by what Uncle Arthur says. Oh, I've prayed so hard that some money might come some way, And now it has. See what praying does. I was. Very much afraid that We did not rejoice quite as unselfishly in Sarah's good fortune as we should have done. We had earned our contributions by the sweat of our brow. Or by the scarcely less disagreeable method of begging. And Sarah's had as good as descended upon her out of the skies. As much like a miracle as anything you could imagine. She prayed for it, You know, " said Felix after Sarah had gone home. That's too easy a way of earning money, Grumbled Peter resentfully. If the rest of us had just sat down and done nothing, Only prayed, How much do you suppose we'd have? Don't seem fair to me. Oh well. It's different with Sarah, Said Dan. We could earn money and she couldn't. You see? But come on down to the orchard. The story girl had a letter from her father today and she's going to read it to us. We went promptly. A letter from the story girl's father was always an event, And to hear her read it was almost as good as hearing her tell a story. Before coming to Carlisle, Uncle Blair Stanley had been a mere name to us. Now, He was a personality. His letters to the story girl, The pictures and sketches he sent to her, Her adoring and frequent mention of him, All combined to make him very real to us. We felt, Then, What we did not understand till later years, That our grown-up relatives did not altogether admire or approve of Uncle Blair. He belonged to a different world from theirs. They had never known him very intimately or understood him. I realise now that Uncle Blair was a bit of a bohemian. A respectable sort of tramp. Had he been a poor man, He might have been a more successful artist, But he had a small fortune of his own and, Lacking the spur of necessity, Or of disquieting ambition, He remained little more than a clever amateur. Once in a while he painted a picture which showed what he could do, But for the rest, He was satisfied to wander over the world light-hearted and content. We knew that the story girl was thought to resemble him strongly in appearance and temperament. But she had far more fire and intensity and strength of will. Her inheritance from King and Ward. She would never be satisfied as a dabbler. Whatever her future career should be, Into it she would throw all her powers of mind and heart and soul. But Uncle Blair could do at least one thing surpassingly well. He could write letters. Such letters! By contrast, Felix and I were secretly ashamed of Father's epistles. Father could talk well but As Felix said, He couldn't write worth a cent. The letters we had received from him since his arrival in Rio de Janeiro were mere scrawls, Telling us to be good boys and not trouble Aunt Janet. Incidentally adding that he was well and lonesome. Felix and I were always glad to get his letters but We never read them aloud to an admiring circle in the orchard. Uncle Blair was spending the summer in Switzerland. And the letter the story girl read to us among the fair, Frail, White ladies of the walk, Where the west wind came now with a sigh and again with a rush, And then brushed our faces as softly as the down of a thistle, Was full of the glamour of mountain-rimmed lakes and purple chalets and snowy summits old in story. We climbed Mont Blanc, Saw the Jungfrau soaring into cloud land. And walk. Among the gloomy pillars of Bonnevard's prison. Finally, The story girl told us the tale of the prisoner of Shillong. In words that were Byron's, But in a voice that was all her own. It must be splendid to go to Europe, Sighed Cecily longingly. I am going some day, Said the Story Girl airily. We looked at her with a slightly incredulous awe. To us, In those years, Europe. Seemed almost as remote and unreachable as the moon. It was hard to believe that one of us. . . Should ever go there? But. . . Aunt Julia had gone. And she had been brought up in Carlisle on this very farm, So. . . It was possible that the story girl might go to What will you do there? Asked Peter practically. I. Shall learn how to tell stories to all the world, Said the Story Girl dreamily. It was a lovely golden brown evening. The orchard and the farmlands beyond were full of ruby lights and kissing shadows. Over in the east, Above the awkward man's house, The wedding veil of the proud princess floated across the sky, Presently turning as rosy as if bedewed with her heart's blood. We sat there and talked until the first star lighted a white taper over the beach hill. Then I remembered that I had forgotten to take my dose of magic seed. And I hastened to do it, Although I was beginning to lose faith in it. I had not grown a single bit by the merciless testimony of the hall door. I took the box of seed out of my trunk in the toilet room. And swallowed the decreed pinch. As I did so, Dan's voice rang out behind me. Beverly King, What have you got there? I thrust the box hastily into my trunk and confronted Dan. None of your business, I said defiantly. Yes, Tis. Dan was too much in earnest to resent my blunt speech. Look here, Bev, Is that magic seed? And did you get it from Billy Robinson? Dan and I looked at each other, Suspicion dawning in our eyes. What do you know about Billy Robinson and his magic seed? I demanded. Just this i bought a box from him for for something. He said he wasn't going to sell any of it to anybody else. Did he sell any to you? Yes, He did, I said in disgust, For I was beginning to understand that Billy and his magic seed were errant frauds. Four! Your mouth is a decent size, " said Dan. Mouse? It had nothing to do with my mouth. He said it would make me grow tall and it hasn't, Not an inch. I don't see what you wanted it for, You were tall enough! I got it for my mouth, Said Dan with a shame-faced grin. The girls in school laugh at it so. Kate Marr says it's like a gash in a pie. Billy said that seed would shrink it for sure. Well, There it was! Billy had deceived us both. Nor were we the only victims. We did not find the whole story out at once. Indeed, The summer was almost over before, In one way or another, The full measure of that shameless Billy Robinson's iniquity was revealed to us. Part. I shall anticipate the successive relations in this chapter. Every pupil of Carlisle School, So it eventually appeared, Had bought Magic Seed. Under solemn promise of secrecy. Felix had believed blissfully that it would make him thin. Cecily's hair was to become naturally curly. And Sarah Ray was not to be afraid of Peg Bowen anymore. It was to make Felicity as clever as the story girl. And it was to make the story girl as good a cook as Felicity. What Peter had bought magic seed for remained a secret longer than any of the others. Finally, It was the night before what we expected would be the judgment day, He confessed to me that he had taken it to make Felicity fond of him. Skillfully indeed, Had that astute Billy played on our respective weaknesses. The keenest edge to our humiliation was given by the discovery that the magic seed was nothing more or less than caraway. Which grew in abundance at Billy Robinson's uncle's in Markdale, Peg Bowen had had nothing to do with it. Well, We had all been badly hoaxed, But we did not trumpet our wrongs abroad. We did not even call Billy to account. We thought that least said was soonest mended in such a matter. We went very softly indeed. Lest the grown-ups, Especially that terrible Uncle Roger, Should hear of it. We should have known better than to trust Billy Robinson, Said Felicity, Summing up the case one evening when all had been made known. After all, What could you expect from a pig but a grunt? We were not surprised to find that Billy Robinson's contribution to the library fund was the largest handed in by any of the scholars. Cecily said she didn't envy him his conscience. But. . . I'm afraid she measured his conscience by her own. I doubt very much if Billy's troubled him at all. Chapter 10 A Daughter of Eve I hate the thought of growing up, Said the story girl reflectively, Because I can never go barefooted then. And nobody will ever see what beautiful feet I have. She was sitting the July sunlight on the ledge of the open hayloft window in Uncle Roger's big barn. And the bare feet below her print skirt were beautiful. They were slender and shapely and satin silk. Smooth, With arched insteps, The daintiest of toes, And nails like pink shells. We were all in the hayloft. The story girl had been telling us a tale of old, Unhappy, Far-off things and battles long ago. Felicity and Cecily were curled up in a corner, And we boys sprawled idly on the fragrant, Sun-warm heaps. We had stowed the hay in the loft that morning for Uncle Roger, So we felt that we had earned the right to lull on our sweet-smelling couch. Paylofts are delicious places, With just enough of shadow and soft, Uncertain noises to give an agreeable tang of mystery. The swallows flew in and out of their nest above our heads, And whenever a sunbeam fell through a chink, The air swarmed with golden dust. Outside of the loft was a vast, Sunshiny gulf of blue sky and mellow air, Wherein floated argossies of fluffy cloud and airy tops of maple and spruce. Pat was with us, Of course, Prowling about stealthily, Or making frantic, Bootless leaps at the swallows. A cat in a hayloft is a beautiful example of the eternal fitness of things. We had not heard of this fitness then, But we all felt that Paddy was in his own body. Place in a hayloft. I think it is very vain to talk about anything you have yourself being beautiful, " said Felicity. I am not a bit vain, Said the story girl with entire truthfulness. It is not vanity to know your own good points. It would just be stupidity if you didn't. It's only vanity when you get puffed up about them. I am not a bit pretty. My only good points are my hair and eyes and feet. So. I think it's real mean that one of them has to be covered up the most of the time. I'm always glad when it gets warm enough to go barefooted. When I grow up they'll have to be covered all the time. It is mean. You'll have to put your shoes and stockings on when you go to the magic lantern show tonight, Said Felicity in a tone of satisfaction. I don't know that. I'm thinking of going barefooted. You wouldn't. Sarah Stanley You're not in earnest! " exclaimed Felicity, Her blue eyes filling with horror. The story girl winked with the side of her face next to Felix and me, But the side next the girls changed not a muscle. She dearly loved to take a rise out of Felicity now and then. Indeed I would, If I just made up my mind to. Why not? Why not bare feet, If they're clean, As well as bare hands and face? You wouldn't. It would be such a disgrace! Said poor Felicity in real distress. We went to school barefooted all June, " argued that wicked story girl. What is the difference between going to the schoolhouse barefooted in the daytime and going in the evening. There's every difference. I can't just explain it, But. . . Everyone knows there is a difference. You know it yourself. Oh, Please. Don't. Do such a thing, Sarah. Well. I won't just to oblige you, Said the story girl. Who would have died the death before she would have gone to a public meeting barefooted? We were all rather excited over the magic lantern show which an itinerant lecturer was to give in the schoolhouse that evening. Even Felix and I, Who had seen such shows galore, Were interested. And the rest were quite wild. There had never been such a thing in Carlisle before. We were all going, Peter included. Peter went everywhere with us now. He was a regular attendant at church and Sunday school, Where his behaviour was as irreproachable as if he had been raised in the caste of ver de ver. It was a feather in the story girl's cap, For she took all the credit of having started Peter on the right road. Felicity was resigned, Although the fatal patch on Peter's best trousers was still an eyesore to her. She declared she never got any good of the singing because Peter stood up then and everyone could see the patch. Mrs James Clark, Whose pew was behind ours, Never took her eye off it. Also Felicity Evered. But Peter's stockings were always darned. Aunt Olivia had seen to that ever since she heard of Peter's singular device regarding them on his first Sunday. She had also given Peter a Bible of which he was so proud that he hated to use it lest he should soil it. I think I'll wrap it up and keep it in my box, He said. I have an old Bible of Aunt Jane's at home that I can use. I suppose it's just the same, Even if it is old, Isn't it? Oh, Yes, Cecily had assured him. The Bible is always the same. I thought maybe they'd got some new improvements on it since Aunt Jane's day, Said Peter, Relieved. Sarah Ray is coming along the lane and she's crying. Announced Dan, Who was peering out of a knot hole on the opposite side of the loft. Sarah Ray is crying half her time, Said Cecily impatiently. I'm sure she cries a quart full of tears a month. There are times when you can't help crying, But I hide then. Sarah just goes and cries in public. The lacrimose Sarah presently joined us and we discovered the cause of her tears to be the doleful fact that her mother had forbidden her to go to the magic lantern show that night. We all showed the sympathy we felt. She said yesterday you could go, Said the story girl indignantly. Why has she changed her mind? Because? Of the measles. In Markdale, Sobbed Sarah. She says. Mark Dale is full of them. And they'll be sure to be some of the Marktale people at the show, So. . . I'm not to go. And I've never seen a magic lantern. I've never seen anything. I don't believe there's any danger of catching measles, Said Felicity. If there was, We wouldn't be allowed to go. I wish. I could get the measles. Said Sarah defiantly. Maybe I'd be of some importance to Ma then. Suppose Cecily goes down with you and coaxes your mother, Suggested the story girl. Perhaps she'd let you go then? She likes Cecily. She doesn't like either Felicity or me, So it would only make matters worse for us to try. Mars. Gone to town. Pa and her went this afternoon and they're not coming back till tomorrow. There's nobody home but Judy, Pinnow and me. Then, Said the story girl, Why don't you just go to the show anyhow? Your mother won't ever know if you coax Judy to hold her tongue. Oh, But that's wrong, Said Felicity. You shouldn't put Sarah up to disobeying her mother. Now, Felicity for once was undoubtedly right. The story girl's suggestion was wrong. And if it had been Cecily who protested, The Story Girl would probably have listened to her. And proceeded no further in the matter, But Felicity was one of those unfortunate people whose protests against wrongdoing serve only to drive the wrongdoer further on her sinful way. The Story Girl Resented Felicity's Superior Tone and proceeded to tempt Sarah in right good earnest. The rest of us held our tongues. It was, We told ourselves, Sarah's own lookout. I. . . Have a good mind to do it, " said Sarah. But I can't get my good clothes. There in the spare room, And Marlock the door, For fear somebody would get at the fruitcake. I haven't a single thing to wear except my school gingham. Well, That's new and pretty, Said the story girl. We'll lend you some things. You can have my lace collar. That'll make the gingham quite elegant. And. . . Cecily will lend you her second best hat. But I've no shoes or stockings. They're locked up too. You can have a pair of mine, Said Felicity. Who probably thought that since Sarah was certain to yield to temptation, She might as well be garbed decently for her transgression. Sarah did yield. When the story girl's voice entreated, It was not easy to resist its temptation, Even if you wanted to. That evening, When we started for the schoolhouse, Sarah Ray was among us, Decked out in borrowed plumes. Suppose she does catch the measles, Felicity said aside. I don't believe there'll be anybody there from Markdale. The lecturer is going to Markdale next week. They'll wait for that, Said the story girl, Airily. It was a cool, Dewy evening, And we walked down the long red hill in the highest of spirits. Over a valley filled with beech and spruce was a sunset afterglow, Creamy yellow, And a hue that was not so much red as the dream of red. With a young moon swung low in it, The air was sweet with the breath of moan hayfields, Where swaths of clover had been steeping in the sun. Wild roses grew pinkly along the fences, And the roadsides were stardusted with buttercups. Those of us who had nothing the matter with our consciences enjoyed our walk to the little whitewashed schoolhouse in the valley. Felicity and Cecily were void of offence towards all men. The story girl walked uprightly like an incarnate flame in her crimson silk. Her pretty feet were hidden in the tan-coloured buttoned Paris boots, Which were the secret envy of every schoolgirl incarnate. Lyle. But Sarah Ray was not happy. Her face was so melancholy that the story girl lost patience with her. The story girl herself was not altogether at ease. Probably her own conscience was troubling her, But admit it, She would not. Now, Sarah, She said, You just take my advice and go into this with all your heart. If you go at all, Never mind. If it is bad. There's no use being naughty if you spoil your fun by wishing all the time you were good. You can repent afterwards, But there is no use in mixing the two things together. I'm not repenting, Protested Sarah. I'm only scared of Ma finding it out. Oh. The story girl's voice expressed her scorn. For remorse, She had understanding and sympathy, But fear of her fellow creatures was something unknown to her. Didn't Judy Pinot promise you solemnly she wouldn't tell? Yes, But maybe someone who sees me there will mention it to Ma. Well, If you're so scared, You'd better not go. It isn't too late. Here's your own gate, Said Cecily. But Sarah could not give up the delights of the show. So, She walked on. A small, Miserable testimony that the way of the transgressor is never easy. Even when said transgressor is only a damsel of eleven. The magic lantern show was a splendid one. The views were good and the lecturer witty. We repeated his jokes to each other all the way home. Sarah, Who had not enjoyed the exhibition at all, Seemed to feel more cheerful when it was over and she was going home. The story girl on the contrary was gloomy. There were Markdale people there, She confided to me, And the Williamsons live next door to the Coens, Who have measles. I wish I'd never egged Sarah onto going. But don't tell Felicity I said so. If Sarah Ray had really enjoyed the show, I wouldn't mind, But she didn't. I could see that. So I've done wrong and made her do wrong, And there's nothing to show for it. The night was scented and mysterious. The wind was playing an eerie, Fleshless melody in the reeds of the brook hollow. The sky was dark and starry, And across it the Milky Way flung its shimmering, Misty ribbons. There's 400 million stars in the Milky Way. Quaff Peter. Who frequently astonished us by knowing more than any hired boy could be expected to. He had a retentive memory and never forgot anything he heard or read. The few books left to him by his oft-referred-to Aunt Jane had stocked his mind with a miscellaneous information which sometimes made Felix and me doubt if we knew as much as Peter after all. Felicity was so impressed by his knowledge of astronomy that she dropped back from the other girls and walked beside him. She had not done so before because he was barefooted. It was permissible for hired boys to go to public meetings when not held in the church with bare feet and no particular disgrace. Attached to it, But Felicity would not walk with a bare-footed companion. It was dark now, So nobody would notice his feet. I know a story about the Milky Way, Said the story girl, Brightening up. I read it in a book of Aunt Louisa's in town and I learned it off by heart. Once, There were two archangels in heaven named Zerah and Zulamith. Have angels names same as people interrupted Peter yes of course they must have they'd be all mixed up if they hadn't and when i'm an angel if i ever get to be one will my name still be peter no you'll have a new name up there said cecily gently it says so in the bible wow I'm glad of that. Peter would be such a funny name for an angel. What is the difference between angels and archangels? Archangels are. . . Angels that have been angels so long that they've had time to grow better and brighter and more beautiful than newer angels, " said the story girl who probably made that explanation up on the spur of the moment just to pacify Peter. How long does it take? For an angel to grow into an archangel. Pursued Peter. Oh, I don't know. Millions of years likely and Even then, I don't suppose all the angels do. A good many of them must just stay plain angels, I expect. I shall be satisfied just to be a plain angel, " said Felicity modestly. Oh, See here. If you're going to interrupt and argue over everything, We'll never get the story told, Said Felix. Dry up, All of you. Let the story girl go on. We dried up and the story girl went on. Zerah and Zulamith loved each other just as mortals love and this is forbidden by the laws of the Almighty. And because Zerah and Zulamith had so broken God's law, They were banished from his presence to the uttermost bounds of the universe. If they had been banished together, It would have been no punishment. So, Zerah was exiled to a star on one side of the universe, And Zulamith was sent to a star on the other side of the universe. And between them was a fathomless abyss, Which thought itself could not cross. Only one thing could cross it, And that was love. Zulamith yearned for Zerah with such fidelity and longing that he began to build up a bridge of light from his star. And Zara, Not knowing this, But loving and longing for him began to build a similar bridge of light from her star. For a thousand, Thousand years, They both built the Bridge of Light. And at last, They met and sprang into each other's arms. Their toil and loneliness and suffering were all over and forgotten. Bridge they had built spanned the gulf between their stars of exile. Now when the other archangels saw what had been done, They flew in fear and anger to God's white throne and cried to him, See what these rebellious ones have done. They have built them a bridge of light across the universe and set thy decree of separation at nought. Do thou then stretch forth thine arm and destroy their impious work? They ceased, And all heaven was hushed. Through the silence, Sounded the voice of the Almighty. Nay, He said, Whatsoever in my universe true love hath builded, Not even the Almighty can destroy. The bridge must stand forever. And concluded the story girl, Her face up turned to the sky and her big eyes filled with starlight, It stands still. That bridge is the Milky Way. What a lovely story, Sighed Sarah Ray, Who had been wooed to a temporary forgetfulness of her woes by its charm. The rest of us came back to earth, Feeling that we had been wandering among the hosts of heaven. We were not old enough to appreciate fully the wonderful meaning of the legend, But we felt its beauty and its appeal. To us, Forevermore, The Milky Way would be not Peter's overwhelming garland of suns, But the lucent bridge love created on which The banished archangels crossed from star to star. We had to go up Sarah Ray's lane with her to her very door, For she was afraid Peg Bowen would catch her if she went alone. Then the Story Girl and I walked up the hill together. Peter and Felicity lagged behind. Cecily and Dan and Felix were walking before us, Hand in hand, Singing a hymn. Cecily had a very sweet voice, And I listened in delight. But the Story Girl sighed. Beezles, She asked miserably. Everyone has to have the measles sometime, I said comfortingly, And the younger you are, The better. Chapter 11 The Story Girl Does Penance Ten days later, Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger went to town one evening, To remain overnight and the next day. Peter and the Story Girl were to stay at Uncle Alec's during their absence. We were in the orchard at sunset, Listening to the story of King Cofetua and the Beggar Maid. All of us, Except Peter, Who was hoeing turnips, And Felicity, Who had gone down the hill on an errand to Mrs. Ray. The story girl impersonated the beggar maid so vividly and with such an illusion of beauty that we did not wonder in the least. At the King's love for her. I had read the story before, And it had been my opinion that it was… rot. No king, I felt certain, Would ever marry a beggar maid when he had princesses galore from whom to choose. But now… I understood it all. When Felicity returned. . . We concluded from her expression. That she had news. And she had. Sarah is real sick, She said, With regret and something that was not regret mingled in her voice. She has a cold and sore throat and she is feverish. Mrs. Ray says if she isn't better by the morning, She's going to send for the doctor and she is afraid. It's the measles. Felicity flung the last sentence at the story girl. Who turned very pale. Do you suppose she caught them at the magic lantern show? She said miserably. Where else could she have caught them? Said Felicity mercilessly. I didn't see her, Of course. Mrs Ray met me at the door and told me not to come in. But Mrs Ray says the measles always go awful hard with the Rays. If they don't die completely of them, It leaves them. Death or half-blind or something like that. Of course, Added Felicity, Her heart melting at sight of the misery in the story girl's piteous eyes, Mrs. Ray always looks on the dark side and It may not be the measles Sarah has, After all. But Felicity had done her work too thoroughly. The story girl was not to be comforted. I'd give anything if I'd never put Sarah up to going to that show, She said. It's all my fault. But the punishment falls on Sarah. And that isn't fair. I'd go this minute and confess the whole thing to Mrs. Ray, But— If I did, It might get Sarah into more trouble and I mustn't do that. I shan't sleep a wink tonight. I don't think she did. She looked very pale and woebegone when she came down to breakfast. But for all that, There was a certain exhilaration about her. I'm going to do penance all day for coaxing Sarah to disobey her mother, She announced with chastened triumph. Penance? We murmured in bewilderment. Yes. I'm going to deny myself everything I like. And do everything I can think of that I don't like just to punish myself for being so wicked. And if any of you think of anything I don't, Just mention it to me. I thought it out last night. Maybe Sarah won't be so very sick if God sees I'm truly sorry. He can see it anyhow? Without your doing anything? " said Cecily. My conscience will feel better. I don't believe Presbyterians ever do penance, Said Felicity dubiously. I never heard of one doing it. But the rest of us rather looked with favour on the story girl's idea. We felt sure that she would do penance as picturesquely and thoroughly as she did everything else. You might put peas in your shoes, You know? " suggested Peter. The very thing! I never thought of that. I'll get some after breakfast. I'm not going to eat a single thing all day except bread and water and not much of that. This, We felt, Was a heroic measure indeed. To sit down to one of Aunt Janet's meals? In ordinary health and appetite and eat nothing but bread and water? That would be penance with a vengeance. We felt we could never do it. But the story girl did it. We admired and pitied her. But now, I do not think that she either needed our pity or deserved our admiration. Her ascetic fare was really sweeter to her than honey of Hymettus. She was, Though quite unconsciously, Acting a part and tasting all the subtle joy of the artist. Which is so much more exquisite than any material pleasure. Aunt Janet, Of course, Noticed the Story Girl's abstinence and asked if she was sick. No. I am just doing penance, Aunt Janet, For A sin I committed. I can't confess it, Because that would bring trouble on another person, So. . . I'm going to do penance all day. You don't mind, Do you? " Aunt Janet was in a very good humour that morning, So she merely laughed. Not if you don't go too far with your nonsense, She said tolerantly. Thank you. And will you give me a handful of hard peas after breakfast, Aunt Janet? I want to put them in my shoes. There isn't any. I used the last in the soup yesterday. The story girl was much disappointed, Then I suppose I'll have to do without. The new peas wouldn't hurt enough. They're so soft they'd just squash flat. I'll tell ya, " said Peter. I'll pick up a lot of those little round pebbles on Mr. King's front walk. They'll be just as good as peas. You'll do nothing of the sort, Said Aunt Janet. Sarah must not do penance in that way. She would wear holes in her stockings and might seriously bruise her feet. What would you say if I took a whip and whipped my bare shoulders till the blood came? Demanded the story girl aggrieved. I wouldn't say anything, Retorted Aunt Janet. I'd simply turn you over my knee and give you a sound, Solid spanking, Miss Sarah. You'd find that penance enough. The story girl was crimson with indignation. To have such a remark made to you when you were fourteen and a half. And before the boys too? Really? Aunt Janet could be very. . . Dreadful! It was vacation and there was not much to do that day. We were soon free to seek the orchard, But the story girl would not come. She had seated herself in the darkest, Hottest corner of the kitchen with a piece of old cotton in her hand. I am not going to play today, She said, And I'm not going to tell a single story. Aunt Janet won't let me put pebbles in my shoes, But I've put a thistle next my skin on my back. And it sticks into me if I lean back the least bit. And I'm going to work buttonholes all over this cotton. I hate. Working buttonholes worse than anything in the world. So I'm going to work them all day. What's the good? Of working buttonholes on an old rag. Asked Felicity. It isn't any good. The beauty of penance is that it makes you feel uncomfortable. So, It doesn't matter what you do, Whether it's useful or not, So long as it's nasty. Oh, I wonder how Sarah is this morning. Mother's going down this afternoon, Said Felicity. She says none of us must go near the place till we know whether it is the measles or not. I've thought of a great penance, Said Cecily eagerly. Don't go to the missionary meeting tonight. The story girl looked piteous. I thought of that myself. I can't stay home, Cecily. It would be more than flesh and blood could endure. I must. Hear that missionary speak! Stay safe! He was all but eaten by cannibals once. Just think! How many new stories I'd have to tell after I'd heard him! No. I must go. But… I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll wear my school dress and hat. That will be penance. Felicity, When you set the table for dinner, Put the broken-handled knife for me. I hate it so. And I'm going to take a dose of Mexican tea every two hours. It's such dreadful tasting stuff. But it's a good blood purifier, So Aunt Janet can't object to it. The story girl carried out her self-imposed penance fully. All day, She sat in the kitchen and worked buttonholes, Subsisting on bread and water and Mexican tea. Felicity did a mean thing. She went to work and made little raisin pies right there in the kitchen before the story girl. The smell of raisin pies is something to tempt an anchorite, And the story girl was exceedingly fond of them. Felicity eight, Two. In her very presence. And then brought the rest out to us in the orchard. The story girl could see us through the window, Cruising without stint on raisin pies and Uncle Edward's cherries. But she worked on at her buttonholes. She would not look at the exciting cereal in the new magazine Dan brought home from the post office. Neither would she open a letter from her father. Pat came over, But his most seductive purse won no notice from his mistress, Who refused herself the pleasure of even patting him. Aunt Janet could not go down the hill in the afternoon to find out how Sarah was because Company came to tea. The Mill Wards, From Markdale. Mr Millward was a doctor and Mrs Millward was a BA. Aunt Janet was very desirous that everything should be as nice as possible, And we were all sent to our rooms before tea to wash and dress up. The story girl slipped over home and when she came back, We gasped. She had combed her hair out straight and braided it in a tight, Kinky, Pudgy braid. And she wore an old dress of faded print with holes in the elbows and ragged flounces, Which was much too short for her. Sarah? Darn thee! Have you taken leave of your senses? Demanded Aunt Janet. What do you mean? By putting on such a rig, Don't you know I have company to tea? Yes, And that is just why I put it on, Aunt Janet. I want to mortify the flesh. I'll mortify you if I catch you showing yourself to the mill wards like that, My girl. Go right home and dress yourself decently. Or. . . Eat your supper in the kitchen. The story girl chose. The latter alternative. She was highly indignant. I verily believe that to sit at the dining room table in that shabby, Outgrown dress, Conscious of looking her ugliest, And eating only bread and water before the critical mill wards? Would have been positive bliss to her. When we went to the missionary meeting that evening, The story girl wore her school dress and hat, While Felicity and Cecily were in their pretty muslins. And she had tied her hair with a snuff brown ribbon, Which was very unbecoming to her. The first person we saw in the church porch was Mrs Ray. She told us that Sarah had nothing worse than a feverish cold. The missionary had at least seven happy listeners that night. We were all glad that Sarah did not have measles. And the story girl was radiant. Now, You see, All your penance was wasted, Said Felicity as we walked home, Keeping close together because of the rumour that Peg Bowen was abroad. Oh, I don't know. I feel better since I punished myself. But I'm going to make up for it tomorrow, Said the story girl energetically. In fact, I'll begin tonight. I'm going to the pantry as soon as I get home and I'll read father's letter before I go to bed. The missionary splendid. That cannibal's story was simply grand. I tried to remember every word so that I can tell it just as he told it. Missionaries are such noble people. I'd like to be a missionary and have adventures like that, Said Felix. It would be all right if you could be sure the cannibals would be interrupted in the nick of time, As is were, Said Dan, But supposing they weren't? Nothing would prevent cannibals from eating Felix if they once caught him, Giggled Felicity. He's so nice and fat. I am sure Felix felt very unlike a missionary at that precise moment. I'm going to put two cents more a week in my missionary box than I've been doing, " said Cecily determinedly. Two cents more a week out of Cecily's egg money? Meant something of a sacrifice. It inspired the rest of us. We all decided to increase our weekly contribution by a cent or so, And Peter, Who had had no missionary box at all up to this time, Determined to start one. I don't seem to be able to feel as interested in missionaries as you folks do, " he said. But maybe if I begin to give something, I'll get interested. I'll want to know how my money's being spent. I won't be able to give much when your father's run away and your mother goes out washing and. . . You're only old enough to get 50 cents a week you can't give much to the heathen but I'll do the best I can. My Aunt Jane was fond of missions. Are there any Methodist heathen? I suppose I ought to give my box to them rather than to Presbyterian heathens? No, It's only after they're converted that they're anything in particular, " said Felicity. Before that, They're just plain heathen. But if you want your money to go to a Methodist missionary, You can give it to the Methodist minister at Markdale. I guess the Presbyterians can get along without it and look after their own heathen. Just smell Mrs. Sampson's flowers, Said Cecily, As we passed a trim white paling close to the road, Over which blew odours sweeter than the perfume of Araby's shore. Her roses are all out, And that bed of sweet William is a sight by daylight. Sweet William is a dreadful name for a flower, Said the story girl. William is a man's name, And men are never sweet. They are a great many nice things, But they are not. Sweet. And shouldn't be. That is for women. Oh, Look at the moonshine on the road in that gap between the spruces. I'd like a dress of moonshine with stars for buttons. It wouldn't do, Said Felicity decidedly. You could see through it. Which seemed to settle the question of moonshine dresses, Effectually. Chapter Twelve The Blue Chest of Rachel Ward It's utterly out of the question, " said Aunt Janet seriously. When Aunt Janet said seriously that anything was out of the question, It meant. That she was thinking about it and would probably end up by doing it. If a thing really was out of the question, She merely laughed and refused to discuss it at all. The particular matter in or out of the question that opening day of August was a project which Uncle Edward had recently mooted. Uncle Edward's youngest daughter was to be married, And Uncle Edward had written over urging Uncle Alec, Aunt Janet and Aunt Olivia to go down to Halifax for the wedding and spend a week there. Uncle Alec and Aunt Olivia were eager to go, But Aunt Janet at first declared it was impossible. How could we go away and leave the place to the mercy of all those young ones? She demanded. We'd come home and find them all sick and the house burned down. Not a bit of fear of it, Scoffed Uncle Roger. Felicity. Is as good a housekeeper as you are. And I shall be here to look after them all. And keep them from burning the house down? You've been promising Edward for years to visit him. And you'll never have a better chance. The haying is over. And harvest isn't on, And so on. Alec needs a change. He isn't looking well at all. I think it was Uncle Roger's last argument. Which convinced Aunt Janet. In the end, She decided to go. Uncle Roger's house was to be closed and he and Peter and the Story Girl were to take up their abode with us. We were all delighted. Felicity, In a special, Seemed to be in seventh heaven. To be left in sole charge of a big house with three meals a day to plan and prepare with poultry and cows and dairy and garden to superintend apparently furnished forth Felicity's conception of paradise. Of course, We were all to help, But Felicity was to run things, And she gloried in it. The story girl was pleased, Too. Felicity is going to give me cooking lessons. She confided to me as we walked in the orchard. Isn't that fine? It will be easier when there are no grown-ups around to make me nervous and laugh if I make mistakes. Uncle Alec and aunts left on Monday morning. Poor Aunt Janet was full of dismal forebodings. And gave us so many charges and warnings that we did not try to remember any of them. Uncle Alec merely told us to be good and mind what Uncle Roger said. Aunt Olivia laughed at us out of her pansy blue eyes and told us she knew exactly what we felt like. And hoped we'd have a gorgeous time. Mind they go to bed at a decent hour. Aunt Janet called back to Uncle Roger as she drove out of the gate. And if anything dreadful happens, Telegraph us! Then, They were really. . . Gone. And we were all left to keep house. Uncle Roger and Peter went away to their work. Felicity at once set the preparations for dinner a-going, And allotted to each of us his portion of service. The Story Girl was to prepare the potatoes. Felix and Dan were to pick and shell the peas. Cecily was to attend the fire. I was to peel the turnips. Felicity made our mouths water by announcing that she was going to make a roly-poly jam pudding for dinner. I peeled my turnips on the back porch, Put them in their pot and set them on the stove. Then I was at liberty to watch the others who had longer jobs. The kitchen was a scene of happy activity. The story girl peeled her potatoes somewhat slowly and awkwardly, For she was not deaf at household tasks. Dan and Felix shelled peas and tormented Pat by attaching pods to his ears and tail. Felicity, Flushed and serious, Measured and stirred skillfully, I am sitting on a tragedy. Said the story girl suddenly. Felix and I stared. We were not quite sure what a tragedy was, But we did not think it was an old blue wooden chest, Such as the story girl was undoubtedly sitting on, If eyesight counted for anything. The old chest filled up the corner between the table and the wall. Neither Felix nor I had ever thought about it particularly. It was very large and heavy, And Felicity generally said hard things of it when she swept the kitchen. Explained the story, Girl. I know a story about it. Cousin Rachel Ward's wedding things are all in that old chest, Said Felicity. Who was cousin Rachel Ward? And why were her wedding things shut up in an old blue chest in Uncle Alec's kitchen? We demanded the tail instantly. The story girl told it to us as she peeled her potatoes. Perhaps the potatoes suffered. Felicity declared the eyes were not properly done at all. But the story did not. It is a sad story, Said the Story Girl, And it happened fifty years ago, When Grandfather and Grandmother King were quite young. Grandmother's cousin, Rachel Ward, Came to spend a winter with them. She belonged to Montreal, And she was an orphan too, Just like the family ghost. I have never heard what she looked like, But she must have been beautiful, Of course. Mother says she was awful sentimental and romantic. Interjected Felicity. Well, Anyway, She met Will Montague that winter. He was handsome, Everybody says so, And an awful flirt, Said Felicity. Felicity, I wish you wouldn't interrupt. It spoils the effect. What would you feel like if I went and kept stirring things that didn't belong it into that pudding. I feel just the same way. Well. Will Montague fell in love with Rachel Ward, And she with him, And it was all arranged that they were to be married from here in the spring. Poor Rachel was so happy that winter. She made all her wedding things with her own hands. Girls did then, You know, For there was no such thing as a sewing machine. Well, At last, In April, The wedding day came and all the guests were here, And Rachel was dressed in her wedding robes, Waiting for her bridegroom. And The story girl laid down her knife and potato and clasped her wet hands. Will Montague never came. We felt as much of a shock as if we had been one of the expectant guests ourselves. What happened to it? Was he killed too? Asked Felix. The story girl sighed and resumed her work. No. Indeed. I wish he had been. That would have been suitable. And romantic. No, It was just something horrid. He had to run away. For debt. Fancy! He acted mean right through, Aunt Janet says. He never sent even a word to Rachel and she never heard from him again. Pig, Said Felix forcibly. She was broken-hearted, Of course. When she found out what had happened, She took all her wedding things and her supply of linen and some presents that had been given her and packed them all away in this old blue chest. Then she went away, Back to Montreal, And took the key with her. She never came back to the island again. I suppose she couldn't bear to. And she has lived in Montreal ever since and never married. She is an old woman now, Nearly 75. And this chest has never been opened since. Mother wrote to Cousin Rachel ten years ago, Said Cecily, And asked her if she might open the chest to see if the moths had got into it. There's a crack in the back as big as your finger. Cousin Rachel wrote back that if it wasn't for one thing. Thing that was in the trunk she would ask mother to open the chest and dispose of the things as she liked but she could not bear that anyone but herself should see or touch that one thing so she wanted it left as it was. Ma said she washed her hands of it, Moths or no moths. She said if cousin Rachel had to move that chest every time the floor had to be scrubbed, It would cure her of her sentimental nonsense. But I think, Concluded Cecily, That I would feel just like cousin Rachel in her place. What was the thing she couldn't bear anyone to see? I asked. Ma thinks it was her wedding dress. But father says he believes it was Will Montague's picture, Said Felicity. He saw her put it in. Father knows some of the things that are in the chest. He was 10 years old and he saw her packet. There's a white muslin wedding dress and a veil and and Felicity dropped her eyes and blushed painfully. A petticoat embroidered by hand from hem to belt, Said the story girl calmly. And a china fruit basket with an apple on the handle. Went on Felicity, Much relieved. And a tea set. And a blue candlestick. I'd dearly love to see all the things that are in it, Said the story girl. Pa says it must never be opened without cousin Rachel's permission, Said Cecily. Felix and I looked at the chest reverently. It had taken on a new significance in our eyes. And seemed like a tomb wherein lay buried some dead romance of the vanished years. What happened to Will Montague? I asked. Nothing, Said the story girl viciously. He just went on living and flourishing. He patched up matters with his creditors after a while and came back to the island. And in the end, He married a real nice girl with money and was very happy. Did you ever hear of anything so unjust? Beverly King! " suddenly cried Felicity who had been peering into a pot. You've gone and put the turnips on to boil whole! Just like potatoes. Wasn't that right? I cried in an agony of shame. Right? But Felicity had already whisked the turnips out and was slicing them while all the others were laughing at me. I had added a tradition on my own account to the family archives. Uncle Roger roared when he heard it, And he roared again at night over Peter's account of Felix attempting to milk a cow. Felix had previously acquired the knack of extracting milk from the udder, But he had never before tried to milk a whole cow. He did not get on well. The cow tramped on his foot and finally upset the bucket. What are you to do when a cow won't stand straight? " spluttered Felix angrily. That's the question, Said Uncle Roger, Shaking his head gravely. Uncle Roger's laughter was hard to bear, But his gravity was harder. Meanwhile, In the pantry, The story girl, Apron enshrouded, Was being initiated into the mysteries of bread making. Under Felicity's eyes, She set the bread, And on the morrow, She was to bake it. The first thing you must do in the morning is knead it well, Said Felicity, And the earlier it's done the better, Because it's such a warm night. With that, We went to bed and slept as soundly as if tragedies of blue chests and turnips and crooked cows had no place in the scheme of things at all. Chapter 13, An old proverb with a new meaning. It was half past five when we boys got up the next morning. We were joined on the stairs by Felicity, Yawning and rosy. Oh dear me, I overslept myself. Uncle Roger wanted breakfast at six. Well, I suppose the fire is on anyhow for the story girl is up. I guess she got up early to knead the bread. She couldn't sleep all night for worrying over it. The fire was on, And a flushed and triumphant story girl was taking a loaf of bread from the oven. Just look, She said proudly. I have every bit of the bread baked. I got up at three. And it was lovely and light so I just gave it a right good kneading and popped it into the oven and it's all done and out of the way. The loaves don't seem quite as big as they should be, She added doubtfully. Sarah Stanley Felicity flew across the kitchen. Do you mean that you put the bread right into the oven after you kneaded it without leaving it to rise a second time? The story girl turned quite pale. Yes. I did, She faltered. Oh. . . Felicity, Wasn't it right? You've ruined the bread, " said Felicity flatly. It's as heavy as a stone. I declare, Sarah Stanley, I'd rather have a little common sense than be a great storyteller. Bitter indeed was the poor Story Girl's mortification. Don't tell Uncle Roger, She implored humbly. Oh. I won't tell him, Promised Felicity amiably. It's lucky there's enough old bread to do today. This will go to the hens, But it's an awful waste of good flour. The story girl crept out with Felix and me to the morning orchard while Dan and Peter went to do the barn work. It isn't any use for me to try to learn to cook, She said. Never mind, I said consolingly. You can tell splendid stories. But what good would that do a hungry boy? Wailed the story girl. Boys ain't always hungry, Said Felix gravely. There's times when they ain't. I don't believe it, Said the story girl drearily. Besides, Added Felix, In the tone of one who says, While there is life, There is yet hope, You may learn to cook yet, If you keep on trying. But Aunt Olivia won't let me waste the staff, My only hope. Was to learn this week. But I suppose Felicity is so disgusted with me now that she won't give me any more lessons. I don't care, Said Felix. I like you better than Felicity, Even if you can't cook. There's lots of folks can make bread, But there isn't many who can tell a story like you. But it's better to be useful. Than just Interesting. Sighed the story girl bitterly. And Felicity, Who was useful, Would in her secret soul have given anything to be interesting. Which is the way of human nature. Company descended on us that afternoon. First came Aunt Janet's sister, Mrs Patterson, With a daughter of 16 years and a son of two. They were followed by a buggy load of Markdale people. And finally, Mrs Elder-Fruin and her sister from Vancouver, With two small daughters of the latter, Arrived. It never rains but it pours said uncle roger as he went out to take their horse but felicity's foot was on her native heath she had been baking all the afternoon and with a pantry well stocked with biscuits cookies cakes and pies she cared not if All Carlyle came to tea. Cecily set the table and the story girl waited on it and washed all the dishes afterwards. But all the blushing honours fell to Felicity, Who received so many compliments that her heirs were quite unmoved. Bearable for the rest of the week. She presided at the head of the table with as much grace and dignity as if she had been five times twelve years old. And seemed to know by instinct just who took sugar and who took it not. She was flushed with excitement and pleasure and was so pretty that I could hardly eat for looking at her. Which is the highest compliment in a boy's power to pay? The story girl, On the contrary, Was under eclipse. She was pale and lustreless from her disturbed night and early rising, And no opportunity offered to tell a melting tale. Nobody took any notice of her. It was Felicity's day. After tea, Mrs. Fruin and her sister wished to visit their father's grave in the Carlisle churchyard. It appeared that everybody wanted to go with them. But it was evident that somebody must stay home with Jimmy Patterson, Who had just fallen sound asleep on the kitchen sofa. Dan finally volunteered to look after him. He had a new Henti book which he wanted to finish and that, He said, Was better fun than a walk to the graveyard. I think we'll be back before he wakes, " said Mrs Patterson. And anyhow, He is very good and won't be any trouble. Don't let him go outside though, He has a cold now. We went away. Leaving Dan sitting on the door sill reading his book and Jimmy P snoozing blissfully on the sofa. When we returned, Felix and the girls and I were ahead of the others. Dan was still sitting in precisely the same place and attitude, But. . . There was no Jimmy in sight. Dan, Where's the baby? Cried Felicity. Dan looked around. His jaw fell in blank amazement. I never saw anyone look as foolish as Dan at that moment. Gracious, I. . . Don't know! He said helplessly. You've been so deep in that wretched book. That he's got out and dear knows where he is. Cried Felicity distractedly. I wasn't, Cried Dan. He must be in the house. Been sitting right across the door ever since you left and he got out unless he crawled right over me he must be in the house He isn't in the kitchen. Said Felicity, Rushing about wildly, And he couldn't get into the other part of the house for I shut the whole door tight and no baby could open it. And it's shut tight yet. So are all the windows. He must have gone out of that door, Dan King, And it's your fault. Volt. He didn't go out of this door, Reiterated Dan stubbornly. I know that. Well, Where is he then? He isn't here. Did he melt into air? Demanded Felicity. Okay. Come and look for him, All of you. Don't stand round like ninnies. We must find him before his mother gets here. Dan King. You're an- Idiot! Dan was too frightened to resent this at the time. However and wherever Jimmy had gone, He was gone. Gone. So much was certain. We tore about the house and yard like maniacs. We looked into every likely and unlikely place, But Jimmy we could not find. Any more than if he had indeed melted into air. Mrs. Patterson came, And we had not found him. Things were getting serious. Uncle Roger and Peter were summoned from the field. Mrs. Patterson became hysterical, And was taken into the spare room with such remedies as could be suggested. Everybody blamed poor Dan. Cecily asked him what he would feel like if Jimmy was never, Never found? The story girl had a gruesome recollection of some baby at Markdale who had wandered away like that, And they never found him till the next spring. And all they found was his skeleton, With the grass growing through it. She whispered. This beats me, Said Uncle Roger when a fruitless hour had elapsed. I do hope that baby hasn't wandered down to the swamp. It seems impossible he could walk so far but. . . I must go and see. Felicity, Hand me my high boots out from under the sofa. There's a girl. Felicity, Pale and tearful, Dropped on her knees and lifted the cretone frill of the sofa. There His head pillowed hardly on Uncle Roger's boots lay Jimmy Patterson. Still sound asleep. Wow. I'll be jiggered. Said Uncle Roger. I knew he never went out of the door, Cried Dan triumphantly. When the last buggy had driven away, Felicity set a batch of bread and the rest of us sat around the back porch steps in the cat's light and ate cherries, Shooting the stones at each other. Cecily was in quest of information. What does it never rains but it pours mean? It means if anything happens, Something else is sure to happen, Said the story girl. I'll illustrate. There's Mrs Murphy. She never had a proposal in her life till she was 40 and then she had three in the one week. And she was so flustered she took the wrong one and has been sorry ever since. Do you see what it means now? Yes i guess so said cecily somewhat doubtfully Later on, We heard her imparting her newly acquired knowledge to Felicity in the pantry. It never rains but it pours means that nobody wants to marry you for ever so long and then lots of people do. Chapter 14, Forbidden Fruit. We were all, With the exception of Uncle Roger, More or less grumpy in the household of King next day. Perhaps our nerves had been upset by the excitement attendant on Jimmy Patterson's disappearance. But it is more likely that our crankiness was the result of the supper we had eaten the previous night. Even children cannot devour mince pie and cold fried pork ham and fruitcake before going to bed with entire impunity. Aunt Janet had forgotten to warn Uncle Roger to keep an eye on our bedtime snacks and we ate what seemed good unto us. Some of us had frightful dreams. And all of us carried chips on our shoulders at breakfast. Felicity and Dan. Began a bickering which they kept up the entire day. Felicity had a natural aptitude for what we called bossing. And in her mother's absence, She deemed that she had a right to rule supreme. She knew better than to make any attempt to assert authority over the story girl. And Felix and I were allowed some length of tether, But Cecily, Dan and Peter were expected to submit dutifully to her decrees. In the main, They did, But. . . On this particular morning, Dan was plainly inclined to rebel. He had had time to grow sore over the things that Felicity had said to him when Jimmy Patterson was thought lost. And he began the day with a flatly expressed determination that he was not going to let Felicity rule the roost. It was not a pleasant day. And to make matters worse, It rained until late in the afternoon. The story girl had not recovered from the mortifications of the previous day. She would not talk. And she would not tell a single story. She sat on Rachel Ward's chest and ate her breakfast with the air of a martyr. After breakfast, She washed the dishes and did the bedroom work in grim silence. Then, With a book under one arm, And Pat under the other, She betook herself to the window-seat in the upstairs hall, And would not be lured from that retreat, Charmed we never so wisely. She stroked the purring paddy and read steadily on. With maddening indifference to all our pleadings. Even Cecily? The meek and mild, Was snappish and complained of headache. Peter had gone home to see his mother and Uncle Roger had gone to Markdale on business. Sarah Ray came up but was so snubbed by Felicity that she went home crying. Felicity got the dinner by herself, Disdaining to ask or command assistance. She banged things about and rattled the stove covers until even Cecily protested from her sofa. Dan sat on the floor and whittled, His sole aim and object being to make a mess and annoy Felicity. In which noble ambition he succeeded perfectly. I wish Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec were home, Said Felix. It's not half so much fun having the grown-ups away as I thought it would be. I wish I was back in Toronto, I said sulkily. The mince pie was to blame for that wish. I wish you were, I'm sure, Said Felicity, Riddling the fire noisily. Anyone who lives with you, Felicity King, Will always be wishing he was somewhere else, Said Dan. I wasn't talking to you, Dan King, Retorted Felicity. Speak when you're spoken to. Come when you're called. Oh, Oh, Oh, Wailed Cecily on the sofa. I wish it would stop raining. I wish my head would stop aching. I wish Ma had never gone away. I wish you'd leave Felicity alone, Dan. I wish girls had some sense, Said Dan. Which brought the orgy of wishing to an end for the time. A wishing fairy might have had the time of her life in the king kitchen that morning, Particularly if she were a cynically inclined fairy. But even the effects of unholy snacks were away at length. By tea time, Things had brightened up. The rain had ceased, And the old, Low-rafted room was full of sunshine, Which danced on the shining dishes of the dresser, Made mosaics on the floor, And flickered over the table, Whereon a delicious meal was spread. Felicity had put on her blue muslin, And looked so beautiful in it, That her good humour was quite restored. Cecily's headache was better, And the story girl, Refreshed by an afternoon siesta, Came down with smiles and sparkling eyes. Dan alone continued to nurse his grievances and would not even laugh when the story girl told us a tale brought to mind by some of the Rev. Mr. Scott's plums which were on the table. The Reverend Mr Scott was the man who thought the pulpit door must be made for spirits, You know, She said. I heard Uncle Edward telling ever so many stories about him. He was called to this congregation and he laboured here long and faithfully and was much beloved. Though he was very eccentric. What does that mean? Asked Peter. Hush, It just means queer, Said Cecily, Nudging him with her elbow. A common man would be queer, But when it's a minister, It's Eccentric. When he gets very old, Continued the story girl, The presbytery thought it was time he was retired. He didn't think so. But the presbytery had their way because there were so many of them to one of him. He was retired, And a young man was called to Carlisle. Mr Scott went to live in town, But he came out to Carlisle very often, And visited all the people regularly, Just the same as when he was their minister. The young minister was a very good young man and tried to do his duty but He was dreadfully afraid of meeting old Mr Scott. Because he had been told that the old minister was very angry at being set aside and would likely give him a sound drubbing if he ever met him. One day, The young minister was visiting the Crawfords in Markdale. When they suddenly heard old Mr. Scott's voice in the kitchen. The young minister turned pale as the dead and implored Mrs Crawford to hide him. But she couldn't get him out of the room and all she could do was to hide him in the china closet. The young minister slipped into the china closet and old Mr Scott came into the room. He talked very nicely and read and prayed. They made very long prayers in those days, You know. And at the end of his prayer, He said, Oh Lord, Bless the poor young man hiding in the closet. Give him courage not to fear the face of man. Make him a burning and a shining light to this sadly abused congregation. Just imagine the feelings of the young minister in the china closet. But he came right out, Like a man, Though his face was very red, As soon as Mr. Scott had done praying. And Mr. Scott was lovely to him and shook hands and never mentioned the china closet. And they were the best of friends ever afterwards. How did old Mr Scott find out the young minister was in the closet? Asked Felix. Nobody ever knew. They supposed he had seen him through the window before he came into the house and guessed he must be in the closet because there was no way for him to get out of the room. Mr. Scott planted the yellow plum tree in grandfather's time, Said Cecily, Peeling one of the plums. And when he did it, He said it was as Christian an act. As he ever did. I wonder what he meant? I don't see anything very Christian about planting a tree. I do, " said the story girl sagely. When next we assembled ourselves together, It was after milking and the cares of the day were done with, We four gathered in the balsam-fragrant aisles of the firwood and ate early August apples to such an extent that the story girl said we made her think of the Irishman's pig. An Irishman who lived at Markdale had a little pig, She said, And he gave it a pailful of mush. The pig ate the whole pailful. And then the Irishman put the pig in the pail, And it didn't fill more than half the pail. Now, How was that when it held a whole pailful of mush? This seemed to be a rather unanswerable kind of conundrum. We discussed the problem as we roamed the wood. And Dan and Peter almost quarrelled over it. Dan maintaining that the thing was impossible and Peter being of the opinion that the mush was somehow made thicker in the process of being eaten and so took up less room. During the discussion, We came out to the fence of the hill pasture, Where grew the bad berry bushes. Just what these bad berries were, I cannot tell. We never knew their real name. They were small, Red-clustered berries of a glossy, Seductive appearance, And we were forbidden to eat them because it was thought they might be poisonous. Dan picked a cluster and held it up. Dan King, Don't you dare eat those berries, Said Felicity in her bossiest tone. They're poison. Drop them right away. Now, Dan had not had the slightest intention of eating the berries, Thank you for that. At Felicity's prohibition, The rebellion which had smouldered in him all day broke into sudden flame. He would show her. I'll eat them if I please. Felicity King, He said in a fury. I don't believe they're poison. Look here. Dan crammed the whole bunch into his capacious mouth and chewed it up. They taste great, He said, Smacking. And he ate two more clusters. Regardless of our horror-stricken protestations and Felicity's pleadings, We feared that Dan We dropped it on the spot But nothing occurred immediately. When an hour had passed, We concluded that the bad berries were not poison after all. And we looked upon Dan as Quite a hero for daring to eat them. I knew they wouldn't hurt me, He said loftily. Felicity's so fond of making a fuss over everything. Nevertheless, When it grew dark and we returned to the house, I noticed that Dan was rather pale and quiet. He lay down on the kitchen sofa. Don't you feel all right, Dan? " I whispered anxiously. Shut up, He said. I shut up. Felicity and Cecily were setting out a lunch in the pantry. When we were all startled by a loud groan from the sofa. Oh! I'm sick. Awful sick, " said Dan abjectly. All the defiance and bravado gone out of him. We all went to pieces. Except Cecily. Who alone retained her presence of mind. Have you got a pain in your stomach? She demanded. I've got. . . Awful pain here, If that's where my stomach is, " moaned Dan, Putting his hand on a portion of his anatomy considerably below his stomach. Oh. Oh. Go for Uncle Roger. Commanded Cecily, Pale but composed. Felicity put on the kettle. Dan, I'm going to give you mustard and warm water. The mustard and warm water produced its proper effect promptly, But gave Dan no relief. He continued to writhe and groan. Uncle Roger, Who had been summoned from his own place, Went at once for the doctor, Telling Peter to go down the hill for Mrs Ray. Peter went, But returned accompanied by Sarah only. Mrs Ray and Judy Pinot were both away. Sarah might better have stayed home. She was of no use and could only add to the general confusion. Wondering aimlessly about, Crying. And asking if Dan was going to die. Cecily took charge of things. Felicity might charm the pallet, And the story girl bind captive the soul. But when pain and sickness wrung the brow, It was Cecily who was the ministering angel. She made the writhing Dan go to bed. She made him swallow every available antidote which was recommended in the doctor's book and she applied hot cloths to him until her faithful little hands were half scalded off. There was no doubt Dan was suffering intense pain. He moaned and writhed and cried for his mother. Other. Oh, Isn't it dreadful? " said Felicity, Wringing her hands as she walked the kitchen floor. Oh, Why doesn't the doctor come? I told Dan the bad berries were poison. Surely they'd be. Can't. Kill people altogether. Pa's cousin died of eating something 40 years ago, Sobbed Sarah Ray. Hold your tongue, Said Peter in a fierce whisper. You oughta have more sense than to say such things to the girls. They don't want to be any worse scared than they are. Pa's cousin did die, Reiterated Sarah. My Aunt Jane used to rub whiskey on for a pain, Suggested Peter. We haven't any whiskey, Said Felicity disapprovingly. This is a temperance house. But rubbing whiskey on the outside isn't any harm, Argued Peter. It's only when you take it inside it's bad for you. Well, We haven't any anyhow. Said Felicity. I suppose blueberry wine wouldn't do in its place. Peter did not think blueberry wine would be any good. It was 10 o'clock before Dan began to get better, But from that time he improved rapidly. When the doctor, Who had been away from home when Uncle Roger reached Markdale, Came at half past ten, He found his patient very weak and white, But free from pain. Dr. Greer patted Cecily on the head, Told her she was a little brick and had done just the right thing, Examined some of the fatal berries and gave it as his opinion that they were probably poisonous. Administered some powders to Dan and advised him not to tamper with forbidden fruit in future and went away. Mrs. Ray now appeared looking for Sarah and said she would stay all night with us. I'll be much obliged to you, If you will, Said Uncle Roger. I feel a bit shook. I urged Janet and Alec to go to Halifax and took the responsibility of the children while they were away, But I didn't know what I was letting myself in for. If anything had happened. I could never have forgiven myself. Though. . . I believe it's beyond the power of mortal man to keep watch over the things children will eat. Now. You young fry. Catch straight off to your beds. Dan is out of danger and you can't do any more good. Not that any of you have done much except Cecily. She's got a head on her shoulders. It's been a horrid day all through, " said Felicity drearily as we climbed the stairs. I suppose we made it horrid ourselves, Said the story girl candidly. But it'll be a good story to tell sometime, She added. I'm awful tired. And, Thankful, Sighed Cecily, We all felt that way. Chapter 15 a disobedient brother. Dan was his own man again in the morning. Though rather pale and weak. He wanted to get up, But Cecily ordered him to stay in bed. Fortunately, Felicity forgot to repeat the command, So Dan did stay in bed. Cecily carried his meals to him and read a henty book to him all her spare time. The story girl went up and told him wondrous tales. And Sarah Ray brought him a pudding she had made herself. Sarah's intentions were good, But the pudding. . . Well, Dan fed most of it to Paddy, Who had curled himself up at the foot of the bed, Giving the world assurance of a cat by his mellifluous purring. Ain't he just a great old fellow? " said Dan. He knows I'm kind of sick. Just as well as a human. He never pays no attention to me when I'm well. Felix and Peter and I were required to help Uncle Roger in some carpentering work that day. And Felicity indulged in one of the house-cleaning orgies so dear to her soul. So that it was evening before we were all free to meet in the orchard and lull on the grasses of Uncle Stephen's walk. In August, It was a place of shady sweetness, Fragrant with the odour of ripening apples, Full of dear, Delicate shadows. Through its openings we looked afar, To the blue rims of the hills, And over green, Old, Tranquil fields, Lying the sunset glow. Overhead, The lacing leaves made a green murmurous roof. There was no such thing as hurry in the world. While we lingered there and talked of cabbages and kings, A tale of the story girls wherein princes were thicker than blackberries, And queens as common as buttercups, Led to our discussion of kings. We wondered what it would be like to be a king. Peter thought it would be fine, Only kind of inconvenient wearing a crown all the time. Oh, But they don't, Said the story girl. Maybe they used to once, But now they wear hats. The crowns are just for special occasions. They look very much like other people. If you can go buy their photographs. I don't believe. It would be much fun as a steady thing, Said Cecily. I'd like to see a queen though. That is one thing I have against the island. You never have a chance to see things like that here. The Prince of Wales was in Charlottetown once, Said Peter. My Aunt Jane saw him. Quite close by. That was before we were born. And such a thing won't happen again until after we're dead. Said Cecily with very unusual pessimism. I think queens and kings were thicker long ago, Said the story girl. They do seem dreadfully scarce now. There isn't one in this country anywhere. Perhaps I'll get a glimpse of some when I go to Europe. Well. . . The story girl was destined. To stand before kings herself. And she was to be one whom they delighted to honour. But oh well. We did not know that. As we sat in the old orchard, We thought it quite sufficiently marvellous that she should expect to have the chance of just seeing them. Can a queen do exactly as she pleases? Sarah Ray wanted to know. Not nowadays, Explained the story girl. I don't see any use in being one. Sarah decided. King can't do as he pleases now either, Said Felix. If he tries to, And if it isn't what pleases other people, The Parliament or something squelches him. Isn't squelch. A lovely word, Said the story girl irrelevantly. It's so expressive. Squelch. Certainly, It was a lovely word as the story girl said it. Even a king would not have minded being squelched if it were done to music like that. Uncle Roger says that Martin Forbes's wife has squelched him, Said Felicity. He says Martin can't call his soul his own since he was married. I'm glad of it, " said Cecily vindictively. We all stared. This was so very unlike Cecily. Martin Forbes. Is the brother of a horrid man in Somerside who called me Johnny! That's why. She explained. He was visiting here with his wife two years ago and he called me Johnny. Every time he spoke to me, Just you fancy. I'll never forgive him. That isn't a Christian spirit, " said Felicity rebukingly. I don't care. Would you forgive James Forbes if he had called you Johnny? Demanded Cecily. I know a story. About Martin Forbes's grandfather, Said the story girl. Long ago, They didn't have any choir in the Carlisle church, Just a placenta, You know, But at last they got a choir, And Andrew Macpherson was to sing bass in it. Old Mr Forbes hadn't gone to church for years because he was so rheumatic, But he went. The first Sunday the choir sang, Because he had never heard anyone sing bass. And wanted to hear what it was like. Grandfather King asked him what he thought of the choir. Mr Forbes said it was very good, But as for Andrew's bass, There was no bass about it. That was just a. . . The heel team! If you could have heard the story girls, Brrr, Not old Mr. Forbes himself could have invested it with more of Doric scorn. We rolled over in the cool grass and screamed with laughter. Poor Dan, Said Cecily compassionately. He's up there all alone in his room, Missing all the fun. I suppose it's. . . Mean of us to be having such a good time here. When he has to stay in bed. If Dan hadn't done wrong. Eating the bad berries when he was told not to. He wouldn't be sick. Said Felicity. You're bound to catch it when you do wrong. It was just a providence. He didn't die. That makes me think. Of another story about old Mr. Scott. Said the story girl. You know, I told you he was very angry because the presbytery made him retire. There were two ministers in particular he blamed for being at the bottom of it. One time. A friend of his was trying to console him. And said to him, You should be resigned to the will of providence. Providence had nothing to do with it, " said old Mr. Scott. "'Twas the McCloskeys and the devil. " You shouldn't speak of the devil, Said Felicity, Rather shocked. Well, That's just what Mr. Scott said. Oh, It's all right for a minister to speak of him, But it isn't nice for little girls. If you have to speak of them. Him. You might say the old scratch. That is what mother calls him. Was The McCloskeys and The Old Scratch. Said the story girl reflectively, As if she were trying to see which version was the more effective. It wouldn't do, She decided. I don't think it's any harm to mention the The. . . That person, When you're telling a story, Said Cecily, It's only in plain talking, It doesn't do It sounds too much like. . . Swearing, Then? I know another story about Mr. Scott, Said the story girl. Not long after he was married. His wife wasn't quite ready for church one morning when it was time to go, So Just to teach her a lesson, He drove off alone and left her to walk all the way. It was nearly two miles in the heat and dust. She took it very quietly. It's the best way, I guess, When you're married to a man like old Mr Scott. But just a few Sundays after, Wasn't he late himself. I suppose Mrs Scott thought that what was source for the goose was source for the gander, For she slipped out. And drove off to church, As he had done. Old Mr Scott finally arrived at the church, Pretty hot and dusty, And in none too good a temper. He went into the pulpit, Leaned over it, And looked at his wife, Sitting calmly in her pew at the side. It was cleverly done, He said right out loud, But dinner tray it again. In the midst of our laughter, Pat came down the walk, His stately tail waving over the grasses. He proved to be the precursor of Dan. Clothed and in his right mind. Do you think you should have got up, Dan? " said Cecily anxiously. I had to, Said Dan. The window was open and it was more than I could stand to hear you fellows laughing down here and me missing it all. Besides, I'm alright again. I feel fine. I guess this will be a lesson to you, Dan King, " said Felicity in her most maddening tone. I guess you won't forget it in a hurry? You won't go eating the bad berries another time when you're told not to. Dan had picked out a soft spot in the grass for himself and was in the act of sitting down When Felicity's tactful speech arrested him midway, He straightened up and turned a wrathful face on his provoking sister. Then, Red with indignation. But without a word, He stalked up the walk. Now he's gone off mad, Said Cecily reproachfully. Felicity! Why couldn't you have held your tongue? What did I say to make him mad? Asked Felicity in honest perplexity. I think it's awful for brothers and sisters. To be always quarrelling, Sighed Cecily. The Coens fight back. All the time. And you and Dan will soon be as bad. Talk sense, " said Felicity. Dan's got so It isn't safe to speak to him. I should think he'd be sorry for all the trouble he made last night. But you just back him up in everything, Cecily. I don't. You do. And you've no business to. Especially when Mother's away. She left me in charge. You didn't take much charge last night when Dan got sick, Said Felix maliciously. Felicity had told him at tea that night he was getting fatter than ever. This was his tit for tat. You were pretty glad to leave it all to Cecily then. Who's talking to you? So did Felicity. Now. Look here, Said the story girl, The first thing we know we'll all be quarrelling. And then some of us will sulk all day tomorrow. It's dreadful to spoil a whole day. Just let's all sit still and count a hundred. Before we say another word. We sat still and counted the hundred. When Cecily finished, She got up and went in search of Dan, Resolved to soothe his wounded feelings. Felicity called after her to tell Dan there was a jam turnover she had put away in the pantry specially for him. Felix. Held out to Felicity. A remarkably fine apple, Which he had been saving for his own consumption, End the story, Girl. Began a tale. Of an enchanted maiden in a castle by the sea. But we never heard the end of it, For just as the evening star was looking whitely through the rosy window of the west, Cecily came flying through the orchard, Wringing her hands. Oh, Come, Come quick, She gasped. Dan's eating the bad berries again. He's ate a whole bunch of them. He says he'll show Felicity. I can't stop him. Come, You, And try! We rose in a body and rushed towards the house. In the yard. We encounter Dan emerging from the firwood and champing the fatal berries with unrepentant relish. Dan King. Do you want to commit suicide? Demanded the story girl. Look here, Dan, I expostulated. You shouldn't do this. Think how sick you were last night and all the trouble you made for everybody. Don't eat anymore. There's a good chap. All right, Said Dan. I've had all I want. They taste fine. I don't believe it was them made me sick. But now. . . That his anger was over, He looked a little frightened. Felicity. Was not there. We found her in the kitchen lighting up the fire. Bev filled the kettle with water and put it on to heat. She said in a resigned tone, If Dan's going to be sick again, We've got to be ready for it. I wish mother was home, That's all. I hope she'll never go away again. Dan King, You just wait till I tell her of the way you've acted. Fudge. I ain't going to be sick, " said Dan. And if you begin telling tales, Felicity King, I'll tell some too. I know how many eggs mother said you could use while she was away, And I know how many you have used. I counted. So, You'd better mind your own business, Miss. A nice way to talk to your sister. When you may be dead in an hour's time. Retorted felicity in tears between her anger and her real alarm about Dan. But in an hour's time. . . Dan was still in good health. And announced his intention of going to bed. He went and was soon sleeping as peacefully as if He had nothing on either conscience or stomach. But Felicity declared she meant to keep the water hot. Until all danger was passed. And we sat up to keep her company. We were sitting there when Uncle Roger walked in at eleven o'clock. On earth? Are you young Fry doing up at this time of night? He asked angrily. You should have been in your beds two hours ago. And with a roaring fire, On a night that's hot enough to melt a brass monkey, Have you taken leave of your senses? It's because of Dan, " explained Felicity. Wearily. He went and ate more of the bad berries. A whole lot of them. And we were sure he'd be sick again. But he hasn't been yet and. . . Now he's asleep. Is that. . . ? Boy stark staring mad, " said Uncle Roger. It was Felicity's fault, Cried Cecily, Who always took Dan's part through evil report and good report. She told him she guessed he'd learned a lesson and wouldn't do what she'd told him not to again, So He went and et them, Because she vexed him so. Felicity King. If you don't watch out. You'll grow up into the sort of woman who drives her husband to drink. Said Uncle Roger gravely. How could I tell Dan would act so like a mule? Cried Felicity. Get off to bed! Every one of you. It's a thankful man I'll be when your father and mother come home. The wretched bachelor who undertakes to look after a house full of children like you. Is to be. Pityed. Nobody will ever catch me doing it again. Felicity, Is there anything fit to eat in the pantry? That last question. Was the most unkindest cut of all. Felicity. Could have forgiven Uncle Roger anything. But that It really was unpardonable. She confided to me, As we climbed the stairs, That she Hated, Uncle Roger. Her red lips quivered. And the tears of wounded pride. Brimmed over in her beautiful blue eyes. In the dim candlelight, She looked. Unbelievably pretty and appealing. I put my arm about her and gave her a cousinly salute. Never you mind him, Felicity, " I said. He's only a grown-up. Chapter 16 The Ghostly Bell Friday was a comfortable day in the household of King. Everybody was in good humour. The Story Girl sparkled through several tales that ranged from the affrights and gins of Eastern myth, Through the piping days of chivalry, Down to the homely anecdotes of Carlisle workaday folks. She was, In turn, An oriental princess behind a silken veil, The bride who followed her bridegroom to the wars of Palestine disguised as a page. The gallant lady who ransomed her diamond necklace by dancing a caranto with a highwayman on a moonlit heath. And buzzkirk's girl who joined the sons and daughters of temperance just to see what was into it. And in each impersonation she was so thoroughly the thing impersonated, That it was a matter of surprise to us when she emerged from each our own familiar story girl again. Cecily and Sarah Ray found a sweet new knitted lace pattern in an old magazine and spent a happy afternoon learning it and talking secrets. Chancing, Accidentally, I vow, To overhear certain of these secrets, I learned that Sarah Ray had named an apple for Johnny Price. And Cecily, True as you live, There was eight seeds in it. And you know eight means they both love? While Cecily admitted that Willie Fraser had written on his slate and showed it to her, If you love me as I love you, No knife can cut our love in two. But Sarah Ray, Never you breathe this to a living soul. Felix also averred that he heard sarah ask cecily very seriously cecily how old must we be before we can have a real bow But Sarah always denied it. So I am inclined to believe Felix simply made it up himself. Paddy distinguished himself by catching a rat and being intolerably conceited about it, Until Sarah Ray cured him by calling him a dear sweet cat and kissing him between the ears. Then Pat sneaked abjectly off, His tail drooping. He resented being caught. A sweet cat. He had a sense of humour, Had Pat. Very few cats have, And most of them have such an inordinate appetite for flattery that they will swallow any amount of it and thrive thereon. Paddy had a finer taste. The story girl and I were the only ones who could pay him compliments to his liking. The story girl would box his ears with her fist and say, Bless your grey heart, Paddy. You're a good sort of old rascal. " And Pat would purr his satisfaction. I used to take a handful of the skin on his back, Shake him gently and say, Pat, You've forgotten more than any human being ever knew. And I vow Paddy would lick his chops with delight. But to be called a sweet. Cat. Ugh. Sarah Sarah Felicity tried and had the most gratifying luck with a new and complicated cake recipe. A gorgeous compound of a plumminess to make your mouth water. The number of eggs she used in it would have shocked Aunt Janet's thrifty soul, But that cake, Like beauty, Was its own excuse. Uncle Roger ate three slices of it at tea time and told Felicity she was an arsehole. Artist. The poor man meant it as a compliment but Felicity. Who knew Uncle Blair was an artist and had a poor opinion of such fry, Looked indignant and retorted, Indeed, She wasn't. Peter says there's any amount of raspberries back in the maple clearing, Said Dan. Supposing we all go after tea and pick some? I'd like to, Sighed Felicity, But we'd come home tired and with all the milking to do. You boys better go, Alone. Peter and I will attend to the milking for one evening, Said Uncle Roger. You can all go. I have an idea that a raspberry pie for tomorrow night when the folks come home would hit the right spot. Accordingly, After tea, We all set off, Armed with jugs and cups. Felicity, A thoughtful creature, Also took a small basket of jelly cookies along with her. We had to go back through the maple woods to the extreme end of Uncle Roger's farm, A pretty walk through a world of green whispering boughs and spice sweet ferns and shifting patches of sunlight. The raspberries were plentiful. And we were not long in filling our receptacles. Then we four gathered around a tiny wood spring, Cold and pellucid under its young maples, And ate the jelly cookies. And the story girl told us a tale of a haunted spring in a mountain glen where a fair white lady dwelt And pledged all comers In a golden cup with jewels bright. And if you drank of the cup with her. Said the story girl, Her eyes glowing through the emerald dusk about us. You were never seen in the world again. You were whisked straight away to fairyland and lived there with a fairy bride and you never wanted to come back to earth. Because when you drank of the magic cup, You forgot all your past life. Except for one day in every year when you were allowed to remember it. I wish there was such a place as Fairyland. And a way to get to it, " said Cecily. I think there is such a place in spite of Uncle Edward, Said the story girl dreamily. And I think there is a way of getting there too. If we could only find it. Well. . . The story girl was right there is such a place as fairyland but only children can find the way to it and they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way One bitter day, When they seek it and cannot find it, They realize what they have lost. And that is the tragedy of life. On that day the gates of Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over. Henceforth, They must dwell in the common light of common day. Only a few who remain children at heart can ever find that fair lost path again. And blessed are they above mortals. They, And only they, Can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles. The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and storytellers, But they are just people who have never forgotten the way to Fairyland. As we sat there, The awkward man passed by. With his gun over his shoulder and his dog at his side. He did not look like. An awkward man there in the heart of the maple woods. He strode along right masterfully. And lifted his head with the air of one who was monarch of all he surveyed. The story girl kissed her fingertips to him with the delightful audacity which was a part of her. And the awkward man plucked off his hat and swept her a stately and graceful bow. I don't understand why they call him the awkward man, Said Cecily when he was out of earshot. You'd understand why if you ever saw him at a party or a picnic, Said Felicity, Trying to pass plates and dropping them whenever a woman looked at him, They say it's pitiful to see him. I must get well acquainted with that man next summer, Said the story girl. If I put it off any longer it will be too late. I'm growing so fast Aunt Olivia says I'll have to wear ankle skirts next summer. If I begin to look grown up, He'll get frightened of me. And then I'll never find out. The Golden Milestone mystery. Do you think? He'll ever tell you who Alice is? " I asked. Bye! Have a notion who Alice is already, Said the mysterious creature. But she would tell us nothing more. When the jelly cookies were all eaten, It was high time to be moving homeward for when the dark comes down there are more comfortable places than a rustling maple wood and the precincts of a possibly enchanted spring When we reached the foot of the orchard and entered it through a gap in the hedge, It was the magical, Mystical time of between lights. Off to the west was a daffodil glow hanging over the valley of lost sunsets, And Grandfather King's huge willow rose up against it like a rounded mountain of foliage. In the east, Above the maple woods, Was a silvery sheen that hinted the moonrise. But the orchard was a place of shadows and mysterious sounds. Midway up the open space in its heart, We met Peter. And if ever a boy was given over to sheer terror, That boy was Peter. His face was as white as a sunburned face could be, And his eyes were brimmed with panic. Peter, What is the matter? Cried Cecily. Bezel. Something. In the house. Ringing. A bell. Said Peter in a shaking voice. Not the story girl herself could have invested that something with more of creepy horror. We all drew close together. I felt a crinkly feeling along my back. Which I had never known before. If Peter had not been so manifestly frightened, We might have thought he was trying to pass a joke on us, But such abject terror as his could not be counterfeited. In the house to ring. You must have Imagined it, Peter. Or else Uncle Roger is trying to fool us. Your uncle Roger went to Markdale right after milking, Said Peter. He locked up the house and gave me the key. There wasn't a soul in it then. That I'm sure of. I drove the cows to the pasture. And I got back about 15 minutes ago. I sat down on the front doorsteps for a moment. And all at once! I heard a bell. Ring in the house eight times. I tell ya. I was scared. I made a bolt for the orchard. And you won't catch me going near that house till your Uncle Roger comes home. You wouldn't catch any of us doing it. We were almost as badly scared as Peter. There we stood. In a huddled demoralized group. Ah. What an eerie place! That orchard was. Shadows. What noises! What spooky swooping of bats! You couldn't look every way at once and goodness only knew what might be behind you! There can't be anybody in the house said felicity well Here's the key. Go and see for yourself. Said Peter. Felicity had no intention of going and seeing. I think You boys ought to go, She said, Retreating behind the defence of sex. You ought to be braver than girls. But we ain't, Said Felix candidly. I wouldn't be much scared of anything real. But a haunted house? Is a different thing. I always thought something had to be done. Done in a place before it could be used. Haunted? Said Cecily. Somebody killed or something like that, You know? Nothing like that ever happened in our family. The kings have always been respectable. Perhaps it is Emily King's ghost, Whispered Felix. She never appeared anywhere but in the orchard, Said the story girl. Children. Isn't there something under? Uncle Alex Tree We peered fearfully through the gloom. There was something. Something that. . . Wavered? And fluttered, Advanced, Retreated. That's only my old apron. Said Felicity. I hung it there today when I was looking for the white hen's nest. What shall we do? Uncle Roger may not be back for hours. I can't believe there's anything in the house. Maybe it's only Peg Bowen suggested Dan. There was not a great deal of comfort in this. We were almost as much afraid of Peg Bowen as we would be of any spectral visitant. Peter scoffed at the idea. Bowen. Wasn't in the house. Before your Uncle Roger locked it up. And how could she get in afterwards? He said. No, It isn't Peg Bowen, It's. . . Something that walks. I know a story about a ghost, Said the story girl, The ruling passion strong even in extremity. It is about a ghost with eye holes but no eyes. Tone! Cried Cecily hysterically. Don't you go on. Don't you say another word. I can't bear it. Don't you? The story girl didn't, But she had said enough. There was something in the quality of a ghost with eye-holes but no eyes that froze our young blood. There never were, In all the world, Six more badly scared children than those who huddled in the old king orchard that August night. All at once, Something leapt from the bow of a tree and alighted before us. We split the air with a simultaneous shriek. We would have run, One and all, If there had been anywhere to run to. But there wasn't. All around us were only those shadowy arcades. Then. . . We saw with shame that it was only our paddy. Pat, Pat, I said, Picking him up, Feeling a certain comfort in his soft, Solid body. Stay with us, Old fellow. But Pat? Would none of us? He struggled out of my clasp and disappeared over the long grasses with soundless leaps. He was no longer our tame, Domestic, Well-acquainted paddy. He was a strange, Furtive animal, A questing beast. Presently, The moon rose, But this only made matters worse. The shadows had been still before. Now they moved and danced as the night wind tossed the boughs. The old house, With its dreadful secret, Was white and clear against the dark background of spruces. We were woefully tired. But we could not sit down because the grass was reeking with dew. The family ghost only appears in daylight, Said the story girl. I wouldn't mind seeing a ghost in daylight. After dark is another thing. There's no such thing as a ghost, I said contemptuously. Oh, How I wished I could believe it! Then what rung that bell? Said Peter. Bells don't ring of themselves, I suppose. Especially when there ain't any in the house to ring. Oh, Will Uncle Roger never come home? " sobbed Felicity. I know he'll laugh at us awful. But it's better to be laughed at than scared like this. Uncle Roger did not come until nearly ten. Never was there a more welcome sound than the rumble of his wheels in the lane. We ran to the orchard gate and swarmed across the yard, Just as Uncle Roger alighted at the front door. He stared at us in the moonlight. Have you tormented anyone into eating more bad berries, Felicity? He demanded. Oh, Uncle Roger. Don't go in! " implored Felicity seriously. There's something dreadful in there, Something that rings a bell. Peter heard it. Don't go in. There's no use asking the meaning of this, I suppose, " said Uncle Roger with the calm of despair. I've gave up trying to fathom you young ones. Peter! Where's the key? What yarn have you been telling? I did hear a bell ring, Said Peter stubbornly. Uncle Roger unlocked and flung open the front door. As he did so, Clear and sweet rang out ten bell like. Chimes. That's what I heard, Cried Peter. There's the bell! We had to wait. Until Uncle Roger stopped laughing. Before we heard the explanation, We thought he never would stop. That's Grandfather King's old clock. Striking, He said as soon as he was able to speak. Sammy Pratt came along after tea when you were away to the forge, Peter, And I gave him permission to clean the old clock. He had it going merrily in no time. And now, It has almost frightened you, Poor little monkeys. To death. We heard Uncle Roger chuckling all the way to the barn. Uncle Roger can laugh, " said Cecily with a quiver in her voice, But it's no laughing matter to be so scared. I just feel. I was sick. I was so frightened. I wouldn't mind if he'd laugh once and have it done with it, Said Felicity bitterly, But he'll laugh at us for a year and tell the story to every soul that comes to the place. You can't blame him for that said the story girl. I shall tell it too. I don't care if the joke is as much on myself as anyone. A story. Is a story. No matter who it's on. But it is hateful. To be laughed at. And grown-ups always do it. I never will when I'm grown up. I'll remember better. It's all Peter's fault, Said Felicity. I do think he might have had more sense. Than to take a clock striking for a bell ringing. I never heard that kind of a strike before, Protested Peter. It don't sound a bit like other clocks. And the door was shut and the sound kind of muffled. It's all very fine to say, You would have known what it was, But I don't believe you would. I wouldn't have. Said the story girl, Honestly. I thought it was a bell when I heard it and the door opened too. Let us be fair, Felicity. I'm dreadful tired sighed Cecily We were all dreadful tired, For this was the third night of late hours and nerve-wracking strain. But it was over two hours since we had eaten the cookies, And Felicity suggested that a saucerful apiece of raspberries and cream would not be hard to take. It was not for anyone but Cecily who couldn't swallow a mouthful. I'm glad father and mother will be back tomorrow night, She said. It's too exciting when they're away. That's my opinion. Chapter 17, The proof of the pudding. Felicity was cumbered with many cares the next morning. For one thing, The whole house must be put in apple pie order. And for another, An elaborate supper must be prepared for the expected return of the travellers that night. Felicity devoted her whole attention to this. And left the secondary preparation of the regular meals to Cecily and the Story Girl. It was agreed that the latter was to make a cornmeal pudding for dinner. In spite of her disaster with the bread. The Story Girl had been taking cooking lessons from Felicity all the week. And getting on tolerably well. Although Mindful of her former mistake, She never ventured on anything without Felicity's approval. But Felicity had no time to oversee her this morning. You must attend to the pudding yourself, She said. The recipe's so plain and simple, Even you can't go astray. And if there's anything you don't understand, You can ask me. But don't bother me if you can help it. The story girl did not bother her once. The pudding was concocted and baked, As the story girl proudly informed us when we came to the dinner table, All on her own hook. She was very proud of it. And certainly, As far as appearance went, It justified her triumph. The slices were smooth and golden. Smothered in the luscious maple sugar sauce which Cecily had compounded, Were very fair to view. Nevertheless, Although none of us, Not even Uncle Roger or Felicity, Said a word at the time, For fear of hurting the story girl's feelings, The pudding did not taste exactly the same. As it should. It was tough. Decidedly tough. And lacked the richness of flavour which was customary in Aunt Janet's cornmeal puddings. If it had not been for the abundant supply of sauce, It would have been very dry eating indeed. Eaten it was, However, To the last crumb. If it were not just what a cornmeal pudding might be, The rest of the bill affair had been extra good, And our appetites matched it. I wish I was twins so as I could eat more, Said Dan when he simply had to stop. Good. Would being twins do you? Asked Peter. People who squint. Can't eat any more than people who don't squint. Can they? We could not see any connection between Peter's two questions. What has squinting got to do with twins? Asked Dan. Twins are just people that squint, Aren't they? Said Peter. We thought he was trying to be funny. Until we found out that he was quite in earnest. Then we laughed until Peter got sulky. I don't care. He said, As a fellow to know. Tommy and Adam Cohen over at Markdale are twins and they're both cross-eyed so I supposed that was what being twins meant. It's all very fine for you fellas to laugh. I never went to school half as much as you did. And you was brought up in Toronto too. If you'd worked out ever since you were seven and just got to school in the winter, There'd be lots of things you wouldn't know either. Never mind, Peter, Said Cecily. You know lots of things they don't. But Peter was not to be conciliated, And took himself off in high dudgeon. To be laughed at. Before Felicity to be laughed at by Felicity. Was something he could not endure. Let Cecily and the Story Girl cackle all they wanted to, And let those stuck-up Toronto boys grin like chessy cats. But when Felicity laughed at him, The iron entered into Peter's soul. If the story girl laughed at Peter, The mills of the gods ground out his revenge for him in mid-afternoon. Felicity, Having used up all the available cooking materials in the house, Had to stop perforce. And she now determined to stuff two new pin cushions she had been making for her room. We heard her rummaging in the pantry as we sat on the cool spruce-shadowed cellar door outside, Where Uncle Roger was showing us how to make elderberry pop guns. Presently, She came out frowning. Cecily, Do you know where Mother put the sawdust she emptied out of that old beaded pincushion of Grandmother King's? After she had sifted the needles out of it. I thought it was in the tin box. So it is, Said Cecily. It isn't. There isn't a speck of sawdust in that box. The story girl's face wore a quite indescribable expression. Compound of horror and shame. She need not have confessed, If she had but held her tongue, The mystery of the sawdust's disappearance might have forever remained a mystery. She would have held her tongue, As she afterwards confided to me, If it had not been for a horrible fear which flashed into her mind that possibly sawdust puddings were not healthy for people to eat, Especially if there might be needles in them. And that if any mischief had been done in that direction, It was her duty to undo it, If possible, At any cost of ridicule to herself. Oh. Felicity, She said, Her voice expressing a very anguish of humiliation. I thought that stuff in the box was cornmeal and used it to make the pudding. Felicity and Cecily stared blankly at the Story Girl. We boys began to laugh, But were checked midway by Uncle Roger. He was rocking himself back and forth with his hand pressed against his stomach. Oh, He groaned. I've been wondering what these sharp pains I've been feeling ever since dinner meant. I know now. I must have swallowed a needle. Several needles, Perhaps. I'm done for. The poor story girl went very white. Oh. Uncle Roger. Could it be possible? You couldn't have swallowed a needle without knowing it. It would have stuck in your tongue or teeth. I. . . Didn't. Chew the pudding! Groaned Uncle Roger. It was too tough. I just swallowed the chunks whole. He groaned and twisted and doubled himself up. But he overdid it. He was not as good an actor as the story girl. Felicity looked scornfully at him. Uncle Roger. You are not one bit sick, She said deliberately. You are just putting on. Felicity. If I die from the effects of eating sawdust pudding flavoured with needles, You'll be sorry you ever said such a thing to your poor old uncle, " said Uncle Roger reproachfully. Even if there were no needles in it. 60 year old sawdust? Can't be good for my tummy. I dare say it wasn't even clean. Well, You know, Everyone has to eat a peck of dirt in his life, Giggled Felicity. Nobody has to eat it all at once, Retorted Uncle Roger with another groan. Sarah Stanley. It's a thankful man I am that your Aunt Olivia is to be home tonight. You'd have me kilt entirely by another day. I believe you did it on purpose to have a story to tell. Uncle Roger hobbled off. To the barn, Still holding on to his stomach. Do you think he really feels sick? Asked the story girl anxiously. No, I don't, Said Felicity. You needn't worry over him. There's nothing the matter with him. I don't believe there were any needles in that sawdust. Mother sifted it very carefully. Bye! Know a story about a man whose son swallowed a mouse, Said the story girl, Who would probably have known a story and tried to tell it if she were being led to the stake. And he ran and wakened up a very tired doctor, Just as he had got to sleep. Oh, Doctor, My son has swallowed a mouse, He cried. What shall I do? Tell him to swallow a cat, Roared the poor doctor and slammed his door. Now. . . If Uncle Roger has swallowed any needles, Maybe it would make it all right if he swallowed a pincushion. We all laughed. But Felicity soon grew sober. It seems awful. To think of eating a sawdust. Pudding. How on earth did you make such a mistake? Just like cornmeal, " said the story girl, Going from white to red in her shame. Well, I'm going to give up trying to cook and stick to things I can do. And if ever one of you mentions sawdust pudding to me, I'll never tell you another story as long as I live. Live. The threat was effectual. Never did we mention that unholy pudding. But the story girl could not so impose silence on the grown-ups, Especially Uncle Roger. He tormented her for the rest of the summer. Never a breakfast did he sit down to without gravely inquiring if they were sure there was no sawdust in the porridge. Not a tweak of rheumatism did he feel, But he vowed it was due to a needle traffic. Travelling about his body. Aunt Olivia was warned to label all the pincushions in the house Contents sawdust not intended for puddings. Chapter 18 How Kissing Was Discovered An August evening, Calm, Golden, Dewless. Can be Very lovely. At sunset, Felicity, Cecily and Sarah Ray, Dan, Felix and I were in the orchard, Sitting on the cool grasses at the base of the pulpit stone. In the west was a field of crocus sky, Over which pale cloud blossoms were scattered. Uncle Roger had gone to the station to meet the travellers, And the dining room table was spread with a feast of fat things. It's been a jolly week, Take it all round, Said Felix, But I'm glad the grown-ups are coming back tonight, Especially Uncle Alec. I wonder if they'll bring us anything, Said Dan. I'm thinking long to hear all about the wedding, " said Felicity, Who was braiding Timothy's storks into a collar for Pat. You girls are always thinking about weddings and getting married, Said Dan contemptuously. We ain't, Said Felicity indignantly. I am never going to get married. I think it is just horrid. So there. I guess you think it would be a good deal horrider not to be? " said Dan. It depends on who you're married to said cecily gravely seeing that felicity disdained reply if you got a man like father it would be all right but supposing you got one like Andrew Ward. He's so mean. And cross to his wife, That she tells him every day she wishes she'd never set eyes on him. Perhaps that's why he's mean and cross, Said Felix. I tell ya. . . It isn't always the man's fault, Said Dan darkly. When I get married, I'll be good to my wife, But I mean to be boss. When I open my mouth, My word will be law. If your word is as big as your mouth. I guess it will be. Said Felicity cruelly. I pity the man who gets you, Felicity King. That's all, Retorted Dan. Now, Don't fight, Implored Cecily. Who's fighting? Demanded done. Felicity thinks she can say anything she likes to me. But I'll show her different. Probably, In spite of Cecily's efforts, A bitter spat would have resulted between Dan and Felicity. Had not a diversion. Been affected at that moment by the story goal. Who came slowly down Uncle Stephen's walk. Just look! How the story girl has got herself up, Said Felicity. Why? She's no more than decent. The story girl was barefooted and bare-armed. Having rolled the sleeves of her pink gingham up to her shoulders. Around her waist was twisted a girdle of the blood-red roses that bloomed in Aunt Olivia's garden. On her sleek curls she wore a chaplet of them, And her hands were full of them. She paused under the outmost tree in a golden-green gloom. And laughed at us over a big branch. Her wild, Subtle, Nameless charm clothed her as with a garment. We always remembered the picture she made there. And in later days, When we read Tennyson's poems at a college desk, We knew exactly how an oriad peering through the green leaves on some haunted knoll of many-fountained eider must look. It. Felicity, Said the story girl, Reproachfully, What have you been doing to Peter? He's up there sulking in the granary and he won't come down and he says it's your fault. You must have hurt his feelings dreadfully. I don't know about his feelings, Said Felicity. With an angry toss of her shining head. But I guess I made his ears tingle all right. I boxed them both, Good and hard. Felicity. What for? Well. He tried to kiss me. That's what for, Said Felicity, Turning very red. As if I would let a hired boy kiss me. I guess Master Peter won't try anything like that again in a hurry. The story girl came out of her shadows and sat down beside us on the grass. Well. . . In that case, She said gravely, I I think you did right to slap his ears. Not because he is a hired boy, But because it would be impertinent in any boy. But talking of kissing makes me think of a story I found in Aunt Olivia's scrapbook the other day. Wouldn't you like to hear it? It is called How Kissing Was Discovered. Wasn't kissing always discovered? Asked Dan. Not according to this story. It was just discovered accidentally. Well, Let's hear about it, Said Felix, Although I think kissing's awful silly and it wouldn't have mattered much if it had never been discovered. The story girl scattered her roses around her on the grass and clasped her slim hands over her knees. Gazing dreamily afar at the tinted sky between the apple trees, As if she were looking back to the merry days of the world's gay youth. She began, Her voice giving to the words and fancies of the old tale the delicacy of hoarfrost and the crystal sparkle of dew. It happened long, Long ago in Greece. Where so many other beautiful things happened. Before that, Nobody had ever heard of kissing. And then it was just discovered in the twinkling of an eye. And a man wrote it down, And the account has been preserved ever since. There was a young shepherd named Glaucon. A very handsome young shepherd who lived in a little village called Thepes. It became a very great and famous city afterwards, But at this time it was only a little village. Very quiet and simple. Too quiet for Glaucon's liking. He grew tired of it and he thought he would like to go away from home and see something of the world. So he took his knapsack and his shepherd's crook and wandered away. Until he came to Thessaly. That is the land of the God's hill. You know, The name of the hill was Olympus, But it has nothing to do with this story. This happened on another mountain, Mount Pelion. Glaucon hired himself to a wealthy man who had a great many sheep. And every day Glaucon had to lead the sheep up to pasture on Mount Pelion and watch them while they ate. There was nothing else to do. And he would have found the time very long if he had not been able to play on a flute. So, He played very often and very beautifully as he sat under the trees and watched the wonderful blue sea afar off and thought about Aglaya. Aglaya was his master's daughter. She was so sweet and beautiful that Glaucon fell in love with her the very moment he first saw her. And when he was not playing his flute on the mountain, He was thinking about Aglaya and dreaming that some day he might have flocks of his own and a dear little cottage down in the valley where he and Aglaya might live. Aglaya had fallen in love with Glaucon just as he had with him. Huh. But she never let him suspect it for ever so long. He did not know how often she would steal up the mountain and hide behind the rocks near where the sheep pastured to listen to Glaucon's beautiful music. It was very lovely music because he was always thinking of Aglaya while he played. Though he little dreamed how near him she often was. But after a while, Glaucon found out that Aglaya loved him. And everything was well. Nowadays, I suppose, A wealthy man like Aglaya's father wouldn't be willing to let his daughter marry a hired man. But this was in the golden age, You know, When nothing like that mattered at all. After that, Almost every day, Aglaya would go up the mountain mountain and sit beside Glaucon as he watched the flocks and played on his flute. But he did not play as much as he used to because he liked better to talk with Aglaya. And in the evening they would lead the sheep home together. One day, Aglaya went up the mountain by a new way and she came to a little brook. Something was sparkling very brightly among its pebbles. Aglaya picked it up and it was the most beautiful little stone that she had ever seen. It was only as large as a pea, But it glittered and flashed in the sunlight with every colour of the rainbow. Aglaya was so delighted with it that she resolved to take it as a present to Glaucon. But all at once, She heard a stamping of hooves behind her. And when she turned, She almost died. Died from fright, For there was the great god Pan. And he was a very terrible object. Looking quite as much like a goat as a man. The gods were not all beautiful, You know. Beautiful or not, Nobody ever wanted to meet them face to face. Give that stone to me, Said Pan, Holding out his hand. But Aglaya, Though she was frightened, Would not give him the stone. I want it for Glaucon, She said. I want it for one of my wood nymphs, " said Pan, And I must have it. He advanced, Threateningly. But Aglaya ran as hard as she could up the mountain. If she could only reach Glaucon, He would protect her. Pan followed her, Clattering and bellowing terribly. But in a few minutes, She rushed into Glaucon's arms. The dreadful sight of Pan, And the still more dreadful noise he made. So frightened the sheep that they fled in all directions. But Glaucon was not afraid at all. Because Pan was the god of shepherds. And was bound to grant any prayer a good shepherd. Who always did his duty, Might make. If Glaucon had not been a good shepherd. Dear knows what would have happened to him and Aglaya, But he was. And when he begged Pan to go away and not frighten Aglaya anymore, Pan had to go. Grumbling a good deal. And Pan's grumblings had a very ugly sound. But still, He went. And that was the main thing. Now, Dearest, What is all this trouble about? Asked Glaucon. And Aglaya told him the story. But. . . "'Where is the beautiful stone? ' he asked when she had finished. "'Didst thou drop it in thy alarm? ' "'No, Indeed. ' Aglaya had done nothing of the sort. When she began to run, She had popped it into her mouth. And there it was, Still, Quite safe. Now, She poked it out between her red lips where it glittered in the sunlight. Take it. She whispered. The question was, How was he to take it? Both of Aglaya's arms were held fast to her sides by Glaucon's arms, And if he loosened his clasp ever so little, He was afraid she would fall. So weak and trembling was she from her dreadful fright. Then Glaucon had a brilliant idea. He would take the beautiful stone from Aglaya's lips with his own lips. He bent over until his lips touched hers And then. . . He forgot all about the beautiful pebble, And so did Aglaya. Kissing was discovered. What a yawn, Said Dan, Drawing a long breath. When we had come to ourselves and discovered that we were really sitting in a dewy Prince Edward Island orchard instead of watching two lovers on a mountain in Thessaly in the golden age. I don't believe a word of it. Of course we know it wasn't really true, Said Felicity. Well. . . I don't know, Said the story girl thoughtfully. I think there are two kinds of true things. True things that are and true things that are not but might be. I don't believe there's any but the one kind of trueness, " said Felicity. This story couldn't be true. You know there was no such thing as a God Pan. How do you know what there might have been in the golden age? Asked the story girl. Which was indeed an unanswerable question for Felicity. I wonder what became of the beautiful stone, Said Cecily. Likely, Aglaia swallowed it, Said Felix practically. Did Glaucon and Aglaya ever get married? Asked Sarah Ray. The story doesn't say. It stops just there, Said the story girl. But of course they did. I will tell you what I think. I don't think Aglaya swallowed the stone. I think it just fell to the ground. And after a while they found it and it turned out to be of such value that Glaucon could buy all the flocks and herds in the valley and the sweetest cottage. And he and Aglaya were married right away. But. . . You only think that, Said Sarah Ray. I'd like to be really sure that was what happened. Ugh. Bother. None of it happened, Said Dan. I believed it while the story girl was telling it, But. . . I don't know. Isn't that wheels? Wheels, It was. Two wagons were driving up the lane. We rushed to the house and there were Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet and Aunt Olivia, The excitement was quite tremendous. Everybody talked and laughed at once and it was not until we were all seated around the supper table that conversation grew coherent. What laughter and questioning and telling of tales followed what smiles and bright eyes and glad voices. And through it all, The blissful purrs of Paddy, Who sat on the windowsill behind the Story Girl, Resounded through the din like Andrew Macpherson's bass. Well, I'm thankful to be home again, Said Aunt Janet, Beaming on us. We had a real nice time, And Edward's folks were as kind as could be. But give me home for a steady thing. How has everything gone? How did the children behave, Roger? Light. Models said uncle roger they were as good as gold most of the days. There were times when one couldn't help liking Uncle Roger.