The Story Girl

n winds and sloping to southern suns, it was already like a wonderful velvet carpet; the leaves on the trees were beginni

said Felix with a blissful sigh, "and

as a very deep well, and the curb was of rough, undressed stones. Over it, the queer, pagoda-like ro

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 ge

r's time," exclaimed Felix, pointing to an old-fashioned shall

, 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 Edenhall in Longfellow's poem. It is the last cup of Grandmother King's second best

were rather disappointed to find them quite large, sturdy ones. It seemed to

s 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 th

njunctions had untold charm, hinting at mystery and laughter and magic bound up in everything she men

alk," said Felix in h

o-AS WELL as you like Felicity and Cecily. Not BETTER. I wanted that once but I've got over it. I found out in

emphatically. I think he was remembe

ty's morning to help prepare breakfast, therefore sh

ding 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. T

came in grandmother's brown hair in those months of waiting. The, for the fir

l. "It's like a dream of fairyland-as if you were walking in a king's palace

ith 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 o

im, and looked at us. Pat sat gravely at its base

ories about the

l. "The story of the Poet Who Was Kissed, and the

Felix greedily, "but te

of story ought to be told in the twilight among the shad

to have the souls frightened out of our

ore comfortable in d

ed just as eagerly as we did. She declared to me afterwards that no matter how often the Story Gir

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 st

e. 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. Sh

e her?" asked Fe

I keep on believing in her," s

her. I'd be afraid," s

Girl reassuringly. "It's not as if it were a strange ghost.

n 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 it, lest

in a tone of quiet amusement. "Is your breakfast ready, Felicity, or

father is through attending to the sick cow, so

hining-eyed from her haste, her face was like a rose of youth.

en, of course. She was only eighteen, 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

guish, red-lipped girl-the kiss dropped as li

ave got marrie

I like it when Peter plays the poet. I don't like it when Dan is the poet because he is so freckled and screws his eyes up

eter like?

ee 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

uch of him, mother says. He is only a hired boy, and he hasn't been well brought up, a

Girl's face as shadow waves go

esting than YOU could ever be, if you were broug

ly write," s

ldn't write at all," said

he never says his prayers,"

nly appearing through a little gap in

e was barefooted. His attire consisted of a faded, gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers; but he w

very often," i

ely to listen to me if I don't pest

t the Story Girl looked as if she th

ow," continued Felicity, dete

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

being BORN something,"

own religion than have to take it just becau

, and this is Felix. And we're all going to be good friends and have a lovely summer together. Think of th

d and dig your Aunt O

tle bed of my own. I am NOT going to dig them up this year to see if they have sprouted. It

r plant the vegetable gar

. Then I DO like to go and look at the nice little rows of onions and beets. But I lov

the time," said Felicity, "and THE

ng as they did if they hadn't lived

Girl slipped away through the gap, followed by Paddy,

hink of the Story Gi

thusiastically. "I never heard an

ood complexion. Mind you, she says she's going to be

t exactl

ked tone. "But I daresay the Story Girl will go and be one just as soon a

s and actresses and all such poor

e Story Girl is fasc

ul fitness at once. Yes, the Story Girl WAS fascinatin

p, 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.