The Golden Road
by L. M. Montgomery
CHAPTER I. A NEW
CHAPTER II. A
WILL, A WAY AND
CHAPTER III. THE
CHAPTER IV. NEW
CHAPTER V. THE
FIRST NUMBER OF
CHAPTER VII. WE
CHAPTER VIII. WE
VISIT PEG BOWEN
THE FEBRUARY AND
MARCH NUMBERS OF
CHAPTER XI. THE
FLOWERS O' MAY
CHAPTER XIII. A
CHAPTER XIV. A
CHAPTER XV. THE
RAPE OF THE LOCK
AUNT UNA'S STORY
SARA RAY HELPS
CHAPTER XIX. BY
WAY OF THE STARS
CHAPTER XXI. PEG
BOWEN COMES TO
THE YANKEE STORM
CHAPTER XXIII. A
CHAPTER XXIV. A
CHAPTER XXV. THE
LOVE STORY OF
THE AWKWARD MAN
THE OLD ORDER
THE PATH TO
CHAPTER XXIX. WE
LOSE A FRIEND
THE LAST NUMBER
OF OUR MAGAZINE
OUR LAST EVENING
THE STORY GIRL
"Life was a rose-lipped comrade
With purple flowers dripping from her fingers."
THE MEMORY OF
Aunt Mary Lawson
WHO TOLD ME MANY OF THE TALES
REPEATED BY THE
Once upon a time we all walked on the golden road. It was a fair
highway, through the Land of Lost Delight; shadow and sunshine were
blessedly mingled, and every turn and dip revealed a fresh charm and a
new loveliness to eager hearts and unspoiled eyes.
On that road we heard the song of morning stars; we drank in
fragrances aerial and sweet as a May mist; we were rich in gossamer
fancies and iris hopes; our hearts sought and found the boon of dreams;
the years waited beyond and they were very fair; life was a rose-lipped
comrade with purple flowers dripping from her fingers.
We may long have left the golden road behind, but its memories are
the dearest of our eternal possessions; and those who cherish them as
such may haply find a pleasure in the pages of this book, whose people
are pilgrims on the golden road of youth.
CHAPTER I. A NEW DEPARTURE
"I've thought of something amusing for the winter," I said as we
drew into a half-circle around the glorious wood-fire in Uncle Alec's
It had been a day of wild November wind, closing down into a wet,
eerie twilight. Outside, the wind was shrilling at the windows and
around the eaves, and the rain was playing on the roof. The old willow
at the gate was writhing in the storm and the orchard was a place of
weird music, born of all the tears and fears that haunt the halls of
night. But little we cared for the gloom and the loneliness of the
outside world; we kept them at bay with the light of the fire and the
laughter of our young lips.
We had been having a splendid game of Blind-Man's Buff. That is,
it had been splendid at first; but later the fun went out of it because
we found that Peter was, of malice prepense, allowing himself to be
caught too easily, in order that he might have the pleasure of catching
Felicity--which he never failed to do, no matter how tightly his eyes
were bound. What remarkable goose said that love is blind? Love can
see through five folds of closely-woven muffler with ease!
"I'm getting tired," said Cecily, whose breath was coming rather
quickly and whose pale cheeks had bloomed into scarlet. "Let's sit
down and get the Story Girl to tell us a story."
But as we dropped into our places the Story Girl shot a significant
glance at me which intimated that this was the psychological moment for
introducing the scheme she and I had been secretly developing for some
days. It was really the Story Girl's idea and none of mine. But she
had insisted that I should make the suggestion as coming wholly from
"If you don't, Felicity won't agree to it. You know yourself, Bev,
how contrary she's been lately over anything I mention. And if she
goes against it Peter will too--the ninny!--and it wouldn't be any fun
if we weren't all in it."
"What is it?" asked Felicity, drawing her chair slightly away from
"It is this. Let us get up a newspaper of our own--write it all
ourselves, and have all we do in it. Don't you think we can get a lot
of fun out of it?"
Everyone looked rather blank and amazed, except the Story Girl.
She knew what she had to do, and she did it.
"What a silly idea!" she exclaimed, with a contemptuous toss of her
long brown curls. "Just as if WE could get up a newspaper!"
Felicity fired up, exactly as we had hoped.
"I think it's a splendid idea," she said enthusiastically. "I'd
like to know why we couldn't get up as good a newspaper as they have in
town! Uncle Roger says the Daily Enterprise has gone to the dogs--all
the news it prints is that some old woman has put a shawl on her head
and gone across the road to have tea with another old woman. I guess
we could do better than that. You needn't think, Sara Stanley, that
nobody but you can do anything."
"I think it would be great fun," said Peter decidedly. "My Aunt
Jane helped edit a paper when she was at Queen's Academy, and she said
it was very amusing and helped her a great deal."
The Story Girl could hide her delight only by dropping her eyes and
"Bev wants to be editor," she said, "and I don't see how he can,
with no experience. Anyhow, it would be a lot of trouble."
"Some people are so afraid of a little bother," retorted Felicity.
"I think it would be nice," said Cecily timidly, "and none of us
have any experience of being editors, any more than Bev, so that
"Will it be printed?" asked Dan.
"Oh, no," I said. "We can't have it printed. We'll just have to
write it out--we can buy foolscap from the teacher."
"I don't think it will be much of a newspaper if it isn't printed,"
said Dan scornfully.
"It doesn't matter very much what YOU think," said Felicity.
"Thank you," retorted Dan.
"Of course," said the Story Girl hastily, not wishing to have Dan
turned against our project, "if all the rest of you want it I'll go in
for it too. I daresay it would be real good fun, now that I come to
think of it. And we'll keep the copies, and when we become famous
they'll be quite valuable."
"I wonder if any of us ever will be famous," said Felix.
"The Story Girl will be," I said.
"I don't see how she can be," said Felicity skeptically. "Why,
she's just one of us."
"Well, it's decided, then, that we're to have a newspaper," I
resumed briskly. "The next thing is to choose a name for it. That's a
very important thing."
"How often are you going to publish it?" asked Felix.
"Once a month."
"I thought newspapers came out every day, or every week at least,"
"We couldn't have one every week," I explained. "It would be too
"Well, that's an argument," admitted Dan. "The less work you can
get along with the better, in my opinion. No, Felicity, you needn't
say it. I know exactly what you want to say, so save your breath to
cool your porridge. I agree with you that I never work if I can find
anything else to do."
"'Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do,"'
quoted Cecily reprovingly.
"I don't believe THAT," rejoined Dan. "I'm like the Irishman who
said he wished the man who begun work had stayed and finished it."
"Well, is it decided that Bev is to be editor?" asked Felix.
"Of course it is," Felicity answered for everybody.
"Then," said Felix, "I move that the name be The King Monthly
"That sounds fine," said Peter, hitching his chair a little nearer
"But," said Cecily timidly, "that will leave out Peter and the
Story Girl and Sara Ray, just as if they didn't have a share in it. I
don't think that would be fair."
"You name it then, Cecily," I suggested.
"Oh!" Cecily threw a deprecating glance at the Story Girl and
Felicity. Then, meeting the contempt in the latter's gaze, she raised
her head with unusual spirit.
"I think it would be nice just to call it Our Magazine," she said.
"Then we'd all feel as if we had a share in it."
"Our Magazine it will be, then," I said. "And as for having a
share in it, you bet we'll all have a share in it. If I'm to be editor
you'll all have to be sub-editors, and have charge of a department."
"Oh, I couldn't," protested Cecily.
"You must," I said inexorably. "'England expects everyone to do
his duty.' That's our motto--only we'll put Prince Edward Island in
place of England. There must be no shirking. Now, what departments
will we have? We must make it as much like a real newspaper as we
"Well, we ought to have an etiquette department, then," said
Felicity. "The Family Guide has one."
"Of course we'll have one," I said, "and Dan will edit it."
"Dan!" exclaimed Felicity, who had fondly expected to be asked to
edit it herself.
"I can run an etiquette column as well as that idiot in the Family
Guide, anyhow," said Dan defiantly. "But you can't have an etiquette
department unless questions are asked. What am I to do if nobody asks
"You must make some up," said the Story Girl. "Uncle Roger says
that is what the Family Guide man does. He says it is impossible that
there can be as many hopeless fools in the world as that column would
stand for otherwise."
"We want you to edit the household department, Felicity," I said,
seeing a cloud lowering on that fair lady's brow. "Nobody can do that
as well as you. Felix will edit the jokes and the Information Bureau,
and Cecily must be fashion editor. Yes, you must, Sis. It's easy as
wink. And the Story Girl will attend to the personals. They're very
important. Anyone can contribute a personal, but the Story Girl is to
see there are some in every issue, even if she has to make them up,
like Dan with the etiquette."
"Bev will run the scrap book department, besides the editorials,"
said the Story Girl, seeing that I was too modest to say it myself.
"Aren't you going to have a story page?" asked Peter.
"We will, if you'll be fiction and poetry editor," I said.
Peter, in his secret soul, was dismayed, but he would not blanch
"All right," he said, recklessly.
"We can put anything we like in the scrap book department," I
explained, "but all the other contributions must be original, and all
must have the name of the writer signed to them, except the personals.
We must all do our best. Our Magazine is to be 'a feast of reason and
flow of soul."'
I felt that I had worked in two quotations with striking effect.
The others, with the exception of the Story Girl, looked suitably
"But," said Cecily, reproachfully, "haven't you anything for Sara
Ray to do? She'll feel awful bad if she is left out."
I had forgotten Sara Ray. Nobody, except Cecily, ever did remember
Sara Ray unless she was on the spot. But we decided to put her in as
advertising manager. That sounded well and really meant very little.
"Well, we'll go ahead then," I said, with a sigh of relief that the
project had been so easily launched. "We'll get the first issue out
about the first of January. And whatever else we do we mustn't let
Uncle Roger get hold of it. He'd make such fearful fun of it."
"I hope we can make a success of it," said Peter moodily. He had
been moody ever since he was entrapped into being fiction editor.
"It will be a success if we are determined to succeed," I said.
"'Where there is a will there is always a way.'"
"That's just what Ursula Townley said when her father locked her in
her room the night she was going to run away with Kenneth MacNair,"
said the Story Girl.
We pricked up our ears, scenting a story.
"Who were Ursula Townley and Kenneth MacNair?" I asked.
"Kenneth MacNair was a first cousin of the Awkward Man's
grandfather, and Ursula Townley was the belle of the Island in her day.
Who do you suppose told me the story--no, read it to me, out of his
"Never the Awkward Man himself!" I exclaimed incredulously.
"Yes, he did," said the Story Girl triumphantly. "I met him one
day last week back in the maple woods when I was looking for ferns. He
was sitting by the spring, writing in his brown book. He hid it when
he saw me and looked real silly; but after I had talked to him awhile I
just asked him about it, and told him that the gossips said he wrote
poetry in it, and if he did would he tell me, because I was dying to
know. He said he wrote a little of everything in it; and then I begged
him to read me something out of it, and he read me the story of Ursula
"I don't see how you ever had the face," said Felicity; and even
Cecily looked as if she thought the Story Girl had gone rather far.
"Never mind that," cried Felix, "but tell us the story. That's the
"I'll tell it just as the Awkward Man read it, as far as I can,"
said the Story Girl, "but I can't put all his nice poetical touches in,
because I can't remember them all, though he read it over twice for
CHAPTER II. A WILL, A WAY AND A WOMAN
"One day, over a hundred years ago, Ursula Townley was waiting for
Kenneth MacNair in a great beechwood, where brown nuts were falling and
an October wind was making the leaves dance on the ground like
"What are pixy-people?" demanded Peter, forgetting the Story Girl's
dislike of interruptions.
"Hush," whispered Cecily. "That is only one of the Awkward Man's
poetical touches, I guess."
"There were cultivated fields between the grove and the dark blue
gulf; but far behind and on each side were woods, for Prince Edward
Island a hundred years ago was not what it is today. The settlements
were few and scattered, and the population so scanty that old Hugh
Townley boasted that he knew every man, woman and child in it.
"Old Hugh was quite a noted man in his day. He was noted for
several things--he was rich, he was hospitable, he was proud, he was
masterful--and he had for daughter the handsomest young woman in Prince
"Of course, the young men were not blind to her good looks, and she
had so many lovers that all the other girls hated her--"
"You bet!" said Dan, aside--
"But the only one who found favour in her eyes was the very last
man she should have pitched her fancy on, at least if old Hugh were the
judge. Kenneth MacNair was a dark-eyed young sea-captain of the next
settlement, and it was to meet him that Ursula stole to the beechwood
on that autumn day of crisp wind and ripe sunshine. Old Hugh had
forbidden his house to the young man, making such a scene of fury about
it that even Ursula's high spirit quailed. Old Hugh had really nothing
against Kenneth himself; but years before either Kenneth or Ursula was
born, Kenneth's father had beaten Hugh Townley in a hotly contested
election. Political feeling ran high in those days, and old Hugh had
never forgiven the MacNair his victory. The feud between the families
dated from that tempest in the provincial teapot, and the surplus of
votes on the wrong side was the reason why, thirty years after, Ursula
had to meet her lover by stealth if she met him at all."
"Was the MacNair a Conservative or a Grit?" asked Felicity.
"It doesn't make any difference what he was," said the Story Girl
impatiently. "Even a Tory would be romantic a hundred years ago.
Well, Ursula couldn't see Kenneth very often, for Kenneth lived
fifteen miles away and was often absent from home in his vessel. On
this particular day it was nearly three months since they had met.
"The Sunday before, young Sandy MacNair had been in Carlyle church.
He had risen at dawn that morning, walked bare-footed for eight miles
along the shore, carrying his shoes, hired a harbour fisherman to row
him over the channel, and then walked eight miles more to the church at
Carlyle, less, it is to be feared, from a zeal for holy things than
that he might do an errand for his adored brother, Kenneth. He carried
a letter which he contrived to pass into Ursula's hand in the crowd as
the people came out. This letter asked Ursula to meet Kenneth in the
beechwood the next afternoon, and so she stole away there when
suspicious father and watchful stepmother thought she was spinning in
the granary loft."
"It was very wrong of her to deceive her parents," said Felicity
The Story Girl couldn't deny this, so she evaded the ethical side
of the question skilfully.
"I am not telling you what Ursula Townley ought to have done," she
said loftily. "I am only telling you what she DID do. If you don't
want to hear it you needn't listen, of course. There wouldn't be many
stories to tell if nobody ever did anything she shouldn't do.
"Well, when Kenneth came, the meeting was just what might have been
expected between two lovers who had taken their last kiss three months
before. So it was a good half-hour before Ursula said,
"'Oh, Kenneth, I cannot stay long--I shall be missed. You said in
your letter that you had something important to talk of. What is it?'
"'My news is this, Ursula. Next Saturday morning my vessel, The
Fair Lady, with her captain on board, sails at dawn from Charlottetown
harbour, bound for Buenos Ayres. At this season this means a safe and
sure return--next May.'
"'Kenneth!' cried Ursula. She turned pale and burst into tears.
'How can you think of leaving me? Oh, you are cruel!'
"'Why, no, sweetheart,' laughed Kenneth. 'The captain of The Fair
Lady will take his bride with him. We'll spend our honeymoon on the
high seas, Ursula, and the cold Canadian winter under southern palms.'
"'You want me to run away with you, Kenneth?' exclaimed Ursula.
"'Indeed, dear girl, there's nothing else to do!'
"'Oh, I cannot!' she protested. 'My father would--'
"'We'll not consult him--until afterward. Come, Ursula, you know
there's no other way. We've always known it must come to this. YOUR
father will never forgive me for MY father. You won't fail me now.
Think of the long parting if you send me away alone on such a voyage.
Pluck up your courage, and we'll let Townleys and MacNairs whistle
their mouldy feuds down the wind while we sail southward in The Fair
Lady. I have a plan.'
"'Let me hear it,' said Ursula, beginning to get back her breath.
"'There is to be a dance at The Springs Friday night. Are you
"'Good. I am not--but I shall be there--in the fir grove behind
the house, with two horses. When the dancing is at its height you'll
steal out to meet me. Then 'tis but a fifteen mile ride to
Charlottetown, where a good minister, who is a friend of mine, will be
ready to marry us. By the time the dancers have tired their heels you
and I will be on our vessel, able to snap our fingers at fate.'
"'And what if I do not meet you in the fir grove?' said Ursula, a
"'If you do not, I'll sail for South America the next morning, and
many a long year will pass ere Kenneth MacNair comes home again.'
"Perhaps Kenneth didn't mean that, but Ursula thought he did, and
it decided her. She agreed to run away with him. Yes, of course that
was wrong, too, Felicity. She ought to have said, 'No, I shall be
married respectably from home, and have a wedding and a silk dress and
bridesmaids and lots of presents.' But she didn't. She wasn't as
prudent as Felicity King would have been."
"She was a shameless hussy," said Felicity, venting on the long-
dead Ursula that anger she dare not visit on the Story Girl.
"Oh, no, Felicity dear, she was just a lass of spirit. I'd have
done the same. And when Friday night came she began to dress for the
dance with a brave heart. She was to go to The Springs with her uncle
and aunt, who were coming on horseback that afternoon, and would then
go on to The Springs in old Hugh's carriage, which was the only one in
Carlyle then. They were to leave in time to reach The Springs before
nightfall, for the October nights were dark and the wooded roads rough
"When Ursula was ready she looked at herself in the glass with a
good deal of satisfaction. Yes, Felicity, she was a vain baggage, that
same Ursula, but that kind didn't all die out a hundred years ago. And
she had good reason for being vain. She wore the sea- green silk which
had been brought out from England a year before and worn but once--at
the Christmas ball at Government House. A fine, stiff, rustling silk
it was, and over it shone Ursula's crimson cheeks and gleaming eyes,
and masses of nut brown hair.
"As she turned from the glass she heard her father's voice below,
loud and angry. Growing very pale, she ran out into the hall. Her
father was already half way upstairs, his face red with fury. In the
hall below Ursula saw her step-mother, looking troubled and vexed. At
the door stood Malcolm Ramsay, a homely neighbour youth who had been
courting Ursula in his clumsy way ever since she grew up. Ursula had
always hated him.
"'Ursula!' shouted old Hugh, 'come here and tell this scoundrel he
lies. He says that you met Kenneth MacNair in the beechgrove last
Tuesday. Tell him he lies! Tell him he lies!'
"Ursula was no coward. She looked scornfully at poor Ramsay.
"'The creature is a spy and a tale-bearer,' she said, 'but in this
he does not lie. I DID meet Kenneth MacNair last Tuesday.'
"'And you dare to tell me this to my face!' roared old Hugh. 'Back
to your room, girl! Back to your room and stay there! Take off that
finery. You go to no more dances. You shall stay in that room until I
choose to let you out. No, not a word! I'll put you there if you
don't go. In with you--ay, and take your knitting with you. Occupy
yourself with that this evening instead of kicking your heels at The
"He snatched a roll of gray stocking from the hall table and flung
it into Ursula's room. Ursula knew she would have to follow it, or be
picked up and carried in like a naughty child. So she gave the
miserable Ramsay a look that made him cringe, and swept into her room
with her head in the air. The next moment she heard the door locked
behind her. Her first proceeding was to have a cry of anger and shame
and disappointment. That did no good, and then she took to marching up
and down her room. It did not calm her to hear the rumble of the
carriage out of the gate as her uncle and aunt departed.
"'Oh, what's to be done?' she sobbed. 'Kenneth will be furious.
He will think I have failed him and he will go away hot with anger
against me. If I could only send a word of explanation I know he would
not leave me. But there seems to be no way at all--though I have heard
that there's always a way when there's a will. Oh, I shall go mad! If
the window were not so high I would jump out of it. But to break my
legs or my neck would not mend the matter.'
"The afternoon passed on. At sunset Ursula heard hoof-beats and
ran to the window. Andrew Kinnear of The Springs was tying his horse
at the door. He was a dashing young fellow, and a political crony of
old Hugh. No doubt he would be at the dance that night. Oh, if she
could get speech for but a moment with him!
"When he had gone into the house, Ursula, turning impatiently from
the window, tripped and almost fell over the big ball of homespun yarn
her father had flung on the floor. For a moment she gazed at it
resentfully--then, with a gay little laugh, she pounced on it. The
next moment she was at her table, writing a brief note to Kenneth
MacNair. When it was written, Ursula unwound the gray ball to a
considerable depth, pinned the note on it, and rewound the yarn over
it. A gray ball, the color of the twilight, might escape observation,
where a white missive fluttering down from an upper window would surely
be seen by someone. Then she softly opened her window and waited.
"It was dusk when Andrew went away. Fortunately old Hugh did not
come to the door with him. As Andrew untied his horse Ursula threw the
ball with such good aim that it struck him, as she had meant it to do,
squarely on the head. Andrew looked up at her window. She leaned out,
put her finger warningly on her lips, pointed to the ball, and nodded.
Andrew, looking somewhat puzzled, picked up the ball, sprang to his
saddle, and galloped off.
"So far, well, thought Ursula. But would Andrew understand? Would
he have wit enough to think of exploring the big, knobby ball for its
delicate secret? And would he be at the dance after all?
"The evening dragged by. Time had never seemed so long to Ursula.
She could not rest or sleep. It was midnight before she heard the
patter of a handful of gravel on her window-panes. In a trice she was
leaning out. Below in the darkness stood Kenneth MacNair.
"'Oh, Kenneth, did you get my letter? And is it safe for you to be
"'Safe enough. Your father is in bed. I've waited two hours down
the road for his light to go out, and an extra half-hour to put him to
sleep. The horses are there. Slip down and out, Ursula. We'll make
Charlottetown by dawn yet.'
"'That's easier said than done, lad. I'm locked in. But do you go
out behind the new barn and bring the ladder you will find there.'
"Five minutes later, Miss Ursula, hooded and cloaked, scrambled
soundlessly down the ladder, and in five more minutes she and Kenneth
were riding along the road.
"'There's a stiff gallop before us, Ursula,' said Kenneth.
"'I would ride to the world's end with you, Kenneth MacNair,' said
Ursula. Oh, of course she shouldn't have said anything of the sort,
Felicity. But you see people had no etiquette departments in those
days. And when the red sunlight of a fair October dawn was shining
over the gray sea The Fair Lady sailed out of Charlottetown harbour.
On her deck stood Kenneth and Ursula MacNair, and in her hand, as a
most precious treasure, the bride carried a ball of gray homespun
"Well," said Dan, yawning, "I like that kind of a story. Nobody
goes and dies in it, that's one good thing."
"Did old Hugh forgive Ursula?" I asked.
"The story stopped there in the brown book," said the Story Girl,
"but the Awkward Man says he did, after awhile."
"It must be rather romantic to be run away with," remarked Cecily,
"Don't you get such silly notions in your head, Cecily King," said
CHAPTER III. THE CHRISTMAS HARP
Great was the excitement in the houses of King as Christmas drew
nigh. The air was simply charged with secrets. Everybody was very
penurious for weeks beforehand and hoards were counted scrutinizingly
every day. Mysterious pieces of handiwork were smuggled in and out of
sight, and whispered consultations were held, about which nobody
thought of being jealous, as might have happened at any other time.
Felicity was in her element, for she and her mother were deep in
preparations for the day. Cecily and the Story Girl were excluded from
these doings with indifference on Aunt Janet's part and what seemed
ostentatious complacency on Felicity's. Cecily took this to heart and
complained to me about it.
"I'm one of this family just as much as Felicity is," she said,
with as much indignation as Cecily could feel, "and I don't think she
need shut me out of everything. When I wanted to stone the raisins for
the mince-meat she said, no, she would do it herself, because Christmas
mince-meat was very particular--as if I couldn't stone raisins right!
The airs Felicity puts on about her cooking just make me sick,"
concluded Cecily wrathfully.
"It's a pity she doesn't make a mistake in cooking once in a while
herself," I said. "Then maybe she wouldn't think she knew so much more
than other people."
All parcels that came in the mail from distant friends were taken
charge of by Aunts Janet and Olivia, not to be opened until the great
day of the feast itself. How slowly the last week passed! But even
watched pots will boil in the fulness of time, and finally Christmas
day came, gray and dour and frost-bitten without, but full of revelry
and rose-red mirth within. Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia and the Story
Girl came over early for the day; and Peter came too, with his shining,
morning face, to be hailed with joy, for we had been afraid that Peter
would not be able to spend Christmas with us. His mother had wanted
him home with her.
"Of course I ought to go," Peter had told me mournfully, "but we
won't have turkey for dinner, because ma can't afford it. And ma
always cries on holidays because she says they make her think of
father. Of course she can't help it, but it ain't cheerful. Aunt Jane
wouldn't have cried. Aunt Jane used to say she never saw the man who
was worth spoiling her eyes for. But I guess I'll have to spend
Christmas at home."
At the last moment, however, a cousin of Mrs. Craig's in
Charlottetown invited her for Christmas, and Peter, being given his
choice of going or staying, joyfully elected to stay. So we were all
together, except Sara Ray, who had been invited but whose mother
wouldn't let her come.
"Sara Ray's mother is a nuisance," snapped the Story Girl. "She
just lives to make that poor child miserable, and she won't let her go
to the party tonight, either."
"It is just breaking Sara's heart that she can't," said Cecily
compassionately. "I'm almost afraid I won't enjoy myself for thinking
of her, home there alone, most likely reading the Bible, while we're at
"She might be worse occupied than reading the Bible," said Felicity
"But Mrs. Ray makes her read it as a punishment," protested Cecily.
"Whenever Sara cries to go anywhere--and of course she'll cry
tonight--Mrs. Ray makes her read seven chapters in the Bible. I
wouldn't think that would make her very fond of it. And I'll not be
able to talk the party over with Sara afterwards--and that's half the
"You can tell her all about it," comforted Felix.
"Telling isn't a bit like talking it over," retorted Cecily. "It's
We had an exciting time opening our presents. Some of us had more
than others, but we all received enough to make us feel comfortably
that we were not unduly neglected in the matter. The contents of the
box which the Story Girl's father had sent her from Paris made our eyes
stick out. It was full of beautiful things, among them another red
silk dress--not the bright, flame- hued tint of her old one, but a
rich, dark crimson, with the most distracting flounces and bows and
ruffles; and with it were little red satin slippers with gold buckles,
and heels that made Aunt Janet hold up her hands in horror. Felicity
remarked scornfully that she would have thought the Story Girl would
get tired wearing red so much, and even Cecily commented apart to me
that she thought when you got so many things all at once you didn't
appreciate them as much as when you only got a few.
"I'd never get tired of red," said the Story Girl. "I just love
it--it's so rich and glowing. When I'm dressed in red I always feel
ever so much cleverer than in any other colour. Thoughts just crowd
into my brain one after the other. Oh, you darling dress--you dear,
sheeny, red-rosy, glistening, silky thing!"
She flung it over her shoulder and danced around the kitchen.
"Don't be silly, Sara," said Aunt Janet, a little stimy. She was a
good soul, that Aunt Janet, and had a kind, loving heart in her ample
bosom. But I fancy there were times when she thought it rather hard
that the daughter of a roving adventurer--as she considered him--like
Blair Stanley should disport herself in silk dresses, while her own
daughters must go clad in gingham and muslin--for those were the days
when a feminine creature got one silk dress in her lifetime, and seldom
more than one.
The Story Girl also got a present from the Awkward Man--a little,
shabby, worn volume with a great many marks on the leaves.
"Why, it isn't new--it's an old book!" exclaimed Felicity. "I
didn't think the Awkward Man was mean, whatever else he was."
"Oh, you don't understand, Felicity," said the Story Girl
patiently. "And I don't suppose I can make you understand. But I'll
try. I'd ten times rather have this than a new book. It's one of his
own, don't you see--one that he has read a hundred times and loved and
made a friend of. A new book, just out of a shop, wouldn't be the same
thing at all. It wouldn't MEAN anything. I consider it a great
compliment that he has given me this book. I'm prouder of it than of
anything else I've got."
"Well, you're welcome to it," said Felicity. "I don't understand
and I don't want to. I wouldn't give anybody a Christmas present that
wasn't new, and I wouldn't thank anybody who gave me one."
Peter was in the seventh heaven because Felicity had given him a
present--and, moreover, one that she had made herself. It was a
bookmark of perforated cardboard, with a gorgeous red and yellow
worsted goblet worked on it, and below, in green letters, the solemn
warning, "Touch Not The Cup." As Peter was not addicted to habits of
intemperance, not even to looking on dandelion wine when it was pale
yellow, we did not exactly see why Felicity should have selected such a
device. But Peter was perfectly satisfied, so nobody cast any blight
on his happiness by carping criticism. Later on Felicity told me she
had worked the bookmark for him because his father used to drink before
he ran away.
"I thought Peter ought to be warned in time," she said.
Even Pat had a ribbon of blue, which he clawed off and lost half an
hour after it was tied on him. Pat did not care for vain adornments of
We had a glorious Christmas dinner, fit for the halls of Lucullus,
and ate far more than was good for us, none daring to make us afraid on
that one day of the year. And in the evening--oh, rapture and
delight!--we went to Kitty Marr's party.
It was a fine December evening; the sharp air of morning had
mellowed until it was as mild as autumn. There had been no snow, and
the long fields, sloping down from the homestead, were brown and
mellow. A weird, dreamy stillness had fallen on the purple earth, the
dark fir woods, the valley rims, the sere meadows. Nature seemed to
have folded satisfied hands to rest, knowing that her long wintry
slumber was coming upon her.
At first, when the invitations to the party had come, Aunt Janet
had said we could not go; but Uncle Alec interceded in our favour,
perhaps influenced thereto by Cecily's wistful eyes. If Uncle Alec had
a favourite among his children it was Cecily, and he had grown even
more indulgent towards her of late. Now and then I saw him looking at
her intently, and, following his eyes and thought, I had, somehow, seen
that Cecily was paler and thinner than she had been in the summer, and
that her soft eyes seemed larger, and that over her little face in
moments of repose there was a certain languor and weariness that made
it very sweet and pathetic. And I heard him tell Aunt Janet that he
did not like to see the child getting so much the look of her Aunt
"Cecily is perfectly well," said Aunt Janet sharply. "She's only
growing very fast. Don't be foolish, Alec."
But after that Cecily had cups of cream where the rest of us got
only milk; and Aunt Janet was very particular to see that she had her
rubbers on whenever she went out.
On this merry Christmas evening, however, no fears or dim
foreshadowings of any coming event clouded our hearts or faces. Cecily
looked brighter and prettier than I had ever seen her, with her softly
shining eyes and the nut brown gloss of her hair. Felicity was too
beautiful for words; and even the Story Girl, between excitement and
the crimson silk array, blossomed out with a charm and allurement more
potent than any regular loveliness-- and this in spite of the fact that
Aunt Olivia had tabooed the red satin slippers and mercilessly decreed
that stout shoes should be worn.
"I know just how you feel about it, you daughter of Eve," she said,
with gay sympathy, "but December roads are damp, and if you are going
to walk to Marrs' you are not going to do it in those frivolous
Parisian concoctions, even with overboots on; so be brave, dear heart,
and show that you have a soul above little red satin shoes."
"Anyhow," said Uncle Roger, "that red silk dress will break the
hearts of all the feminine small fry at the party. You'd break their
spirits, too, if you wore the slippers. Don't do it, Sara. Leave them
one wee loophole of enjoyment."
"What does Uncle Roger mean?" whispered Felicity.
"He means you girls are all dying of jealousy because of the Story
Girl's dress," said Dan.
"I am not of a jealous disposition," said Felicity loftily, "and
she's entirely welcome to the dress--with a complexion like that."
But we enjoyed that party hugely, every one of us. And we enjoyed
the walk home afterwards, through dim, enshadowed fields where silvery
star-beams lay, while Orion trod his stately march above us, and a red
moon climbed up the black horizon's rim. A brook went with us part of
the way, singing to us through the dark--a gay, irresponsible vagabond
of valley and wilderness.
Felicity and Peter walked not with us. Peter's cup must surely
have brimmed over that Christmas night. When we left the Marr house,
he had boldly said to Felicity, "May I see you home?" And Felicity,
much to our amazement, had taken his arm and marched off with him. The
primness of her was indescribable, and was not at all ruffled by Dan's
hoot of derision. As for me, I was consumed by a secret and burning
desire to ask the Story Girl if I might see HER home; but I could not
screw my courage to the sticking point. How I envied Peter his easy,
insouciant manner! I could not emulate him, so Dan and Felix and
Cecily and the Story Girl and I all walked hand in hand, huddling a
little closer together as we went through James Frewen's woods--for
there are strange harps in a fir grove, and who shall say what fingers
sweep them? Mighty and sonorous was the music above our heads as the
winds of the night stirred the great boughs tossing athwart the starlit
sky. Perhaps it was that aeolian harmony which recalled to the Story
Girl a legend of elder days.
"I read such a pretty story in one of Aunt Olivia's books last
night," she said. "It was called 'The Christmas Harp.' Would you like
to hear it? It seems to me it would just suit this part of the road."
"There isn't anything about--about ghosts in it, is there?" said
"Oh, no, I wouldn't tell a ghost story here for anything. I'd
frighten myself too much. This story is about one of the shepherds who
saw the angels on the first Christmas night. He was just a youth, and
he loved music with all his heart, and he longed to be able to express
the melody that was in his soul. But he could not; he had a harp and
he often tried to play on it; but his clumsy fingers only made such
discord that his companions laughed at him and mocked him, and called
him a madman because he would not give it up, but would rather sit
apart by himself, with his arms about his harp, looking up into the
sky, while they gathered around their fire and told tales to wile away
their long night vigils as they watched their sheep on the hills. But
to him the thoughts that came out of the great silence were far sweeter
than their mirth; and he never gave up the hope, which sometimes left
his lips as a prayer, that some day he might be able to express those
thoughts in music to the tired, weary, forgetful world. On the first
Christmas night he was out with his fellow shepherds on the hills. It
was chill and dark, and all, except him, were glad to gather around the
fire. He sat, as usual, by himself, with his harp on his knee and a
great longing in his heart. And there came a marvellous light in the
sky and over the hills, as if the darkness of the night had suddenly
blossomed into a wonderful meadow of flowery flame; and all the
shepherds saw the angels and heard them sing. And as they sang, the
harp that the young shepherd held began to play softly by itself, and
as he listened to it he realized that it was playing the same music
that the angels sang and that all his secret longings and aspirations
and strivings were expressed in it. From that night, whenever he took
the harp in his hands, it played the same music; and he wandered all
over the world carrying it; wherever the sound of its music was heard
hate and discord fled away and peace and good-will reigned. No one who
heard it could think an evil thought; no one could feel hopeless or
despairing or bitter or angry. When a man had once heard that music it
entered into his soul and heart and life and became a part of him for
ever. Years went by; the shepherd grew old and bent and feeble; but
still he roamed over land and sea, that his harp might carry the
message of the Christmas night and the angel song to all mankind. At
last his strength failed him and he fell by the wayside in the
darkness; but his harp played as his spirit passed; and it seemed to
him that a Shining One stood by him, with wonderful starry eyes, and
said to him, 'Lo, the music thy harp has played for so many years has
been but the echo of the love and sympathy and purity and beauty in
thine own soul; and if at any time in the wanderings thou hadst opened
the door of that soul to evil or envy or selfishness thy harp would
have ceased to play. Now thy life is ended; but what thou hast given
to mankind has no end; and as long as the world lasts, so long will the
heavenly music of the Christmas harp ring in the ears of men.' When the
sun rose the old shepherd lay dead by the roadside, with a smile on his
face; and in his hands was a harp with all its strings broken."
We left the fir woods as the tale was ended, and on the opposite
hill was home. A dim light in the kitchen window betokened that Aunt
Janet had no idea of going to bed until all her young fry were safely
housed for the night.
"Ma's waiting up for us," said Dan. "I'd laugh if she happened to
go to the door just as Felicity and Peter were strutting up. I guess
she'll be cross. It's nearly twelve."
"Christmas will soon be over," said Cecily, with a sigh. "Hasn't
it been a nice one? It's the first we've all spent together. Do you
suppose we'll ever spend another together?"
"Lots of 'em," said Dan cheerily. "Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know," answered Cecily, her footsteps lagging
somewhat. "Only things seem just a little too pleasant to last."
"If Willy Fraser had had as much spunk as Peter, Miss Cecily King
mightn't be so low spirited," quoth Dan, significantly.
Cecily tossed her head and disdained reply. There are really some
remarks a self-respecting young lady must ignore.
CHAPTER IV. NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS
If we did not have a white Christmas we had a white New Year.
Midway between the two came a heavy snowfall. It was winter in our
orchard of old delights then,--so truly winter that it was hard to
believe summer had ever dwelt in it, or that spring would ever return
to it. There were no birds to sing the music of the moon; and the path
where the apple blossoms had fallen were heaped with less fragrant
drifts. But it was a place of wonder on a moonlight night, when the
snowy arcades shone like avenues of ivory and crystal, and the bare
trees cast fairy-like traceries upon them. Over Uncle Stephen's Walk,
where the snow had fallen smoothly, a spell of white magic had been
woven. Taintless and wonderful it seemed, like a street of pearl in
the new Jerusalem.
On New Year's Eve we were all together in Uncle Alec's kitchen,
which was tacitly given over to our revels during the winter evenings.
The Story Girl and Peter were there, of course, and Sara Ray's mother
had allowed her to come up on condition that she should be home by
eight sharp. Cecily was glad to see her, but the boys never hailed her
arrival with over-much delight, because, since the dark began to come
down early, Aunt Janet always made one of us walk down home with her.
We hated this, because Sara Ray was always so maddeningly
self-conscious of having an escort. We knew perfectly well that next
day in school she would tell her chums as a "dead" secret that
"So-and-So King saw her home" from the hill farm the night before.
Now, seeing a young lady home from choice, and being sent home with
her by your aunt or mother are two entirely different things, and we
thought Sara Ray ought to have sense enough to know it.
Outside there was a vivid rose of sunset behind the cold hills of
fir, and the long reaches of snowy fields glowed fairily pink in the
western light. The drifts along the edges of the meadows and down the
lane looked as if a series of breaking waves had, by the lifting of a
magician's wand, been suddenly transformed into marble, even to their
toppling curls of foam.
Slowly the splendour died, giving place to the mystic beauty of a
winter twilight when the moon is rising. The hollow sky was a cup of
blue. The stars came out over the white glens and the earth was
covered with a kingly carpet for the feet of the young year to press.
"I'm so glad the snow came," said the Story Girl. "If it hadn't
the New Year would have seemed just as dingy and worn out as the old.
There's something very solemn about the idea of a New Year, isn't
there? Just think of three hundred and sixty-five whole days, with not
a thing happened in them yet."
"I don't suppose anything very wonderful will happen in them," said
Felix pessimistically. To Felix, just then, life was flat, stale and
unprofitable because it was his turn to go home with Sara Ray.
"It makes me a little frightened to think of all that may happen in
them," said Cecily. "Miss Marwood says it is what we put into a year,
not what we get out of it, that counts at last."
"I'm always glad to see a New Year," said the Story Girl. "I wish
we could do as they do in Norway. The whole family sits up until
midnight, and then, just as the clock is striking twelve, the father
opens the door and welcomes the New Year in. Isn't it a pretty
"If ma would let us stay up till twelve we might do that too," said
Dan, "but she never will. I call it mean."
"If I ever have children I'll let them stay up to watch the New
Year in," said the Story Girl decidedly.
"So will I," said Peter, "but other nights they'll have to go to
bed at seven."
"You ought to be ashamed, speaking of such things," said Felicity,
with a scandalized face.
Peter shrank into the background abashed, no doubt believing that
he had broken some Family Guide precept all to pieces.
"I didn't know it wasn't proper to mention children," he muttered
"We ought to make some New Year resolutions," suggested the Story
Girl. "New Year's Eve is the time to make them."
"I can't think of any resolutions I want to make," said Felicity,
who was perfectly satisfied with herself.
"I could suggest a few to you," said Dan sarcastically.
"There are so many I would like to make," said Cecily, "that I'm
afraid it wouldn't be any use trying to keep them all."
"Well, let's all make a few, just for the fun of it, and see if we
can keep them," I said. "And let's get paper and ink and write them
out. That will make them seem more solemn and binding."
"And then pin them up on our bedroom walls, where we'll see them
every day," suggested the Story Girl, "and every time we break a
resolution we must put a cross opposite it. That will show us what
progress we are making, as well as make us ashamed if we have too many
"And let's have a Roll of Honour in Our Magazine," suggested Felix,
"and every month we'll publish the names of those who keep their
"I think it's all nonsense," said Felicity. But she joined our
circle around the table, though she sat for a long time with a blank
sheet before her.
"Let's each make a resolution in turn," I said. "I'll lead off."
And, recalling with shame certain unpleasant differences of opinion
I had lately had with Felicity, I wrote down in my best hand,
"I shall try to keep my temper always."
"You'd better," said Felicity tactfully.
It was Dan's turn next.
"I can't think of anything to start with," he said, gnawing his
"You might make a resolution not to eat poison berries," suggested
"You'd better make one not to nag people everlastingly," retorted
"Oh, don't quarrel the last night of the old year," implored
"You might resolve not to quarrel any time," suggested Sara Ray.
"No, sir," said Dan emphatically. "There's no use making a
resolution you CAN'T keep. There are people in this family you've just
GOT to quarrel with if you want to live. But I've thought of one--I
won't do things to spite people."
Felicity--who really was in an unbearable mood that night--laughed
disagreeably; but Cecily gave her a fierce nudge, which probably
restrained her from speaking.
"I will not eat any apples," wrote Felix.
"What on earth do you want to give up eating apples for?" asked
Peter in astonishment.
"Never mind," returned Felix.
"Apples make people fat, you know," said Felicity sweetly.
"It seems a funny kind of resolution," I said doubtfully. "I think
our resolutions ought to be giving up wrong things or doing right
"You make your resolutions to suit yourself and I'll make mine to
suit myself," said Felix defiantly.
"I shall never get drunk," wrote Peter painstakingly.
"But you never do," said the Story Girl in astonishment.
"Well, it will be all the easier to keep the resolution," argued
"That isn't fair," complained Dan. "If we all resolved not to do
the things we never do we'd all be on the Roll of Honour."
"You let Peter alone," said Felicity severely. "It's a very good
resolution and one everybody ought to make."
"I shall not be jealous," wrote the Story Girl.
"But are you?" I asked, surprised.
The Story Girl coloured and nodded. "Of one thing," she confessed,
"but I'm not going to tell what it is."
"I'm jealous sometimes, too," confessed Sara Ray, "and so my first
resolution will be 'I shall try not to feel jealous when I hear the
other girls in school describing all the sick spells they've had.'"
"Goodness, do you want to be sick?" demanded Felix in astonishment.
"It makes a person important," explained Sara Ray.
"I am going to try to improve my mind by reading good books and
listening to older people," wrote Cecily.
"You got that out of the Sunday School paper," cried Felicity.
"It doesn't matter where I got it," said Cecily with dignity. "The
main thing is to keep it."
"It's your turn, Felicity," I said.
Felicity tossed her beautiful golden head.
"I told you I wasn't going to make any resolutions. Go on
"I shall always study my grammar lesson," I wrote--I, who loathed
grammar with a deadly loathing.
"I hate grammar too," sighed Sara Ray. "It seems so unimportant."
Sara was rather fond of a big word, but did not always get hold of
the right one. I rather suspected that in the above instance she
really meant uninteresting.
"I won't get mad at Felicity, if I can help it," wrote Dan.
"I'm sure I never do anything to make you mad," exclaimed Felicity.
"I don't think it's polite to make resolutions about your sisters,"
"He can't keep it anyway," scoffed Felicity. "He's got such an
"It's a family failing," flashed Dan, breaking his resolution ere
the ink on it was dry.
"There you go," taunted Felicity.
"I'll work all my arithmetic problems without any help," scribbled
"I wish I could resolve that, too," sighed Sara Ray, "but it
wouldn't be any use. I'd never be able to do those compound
multiplication sums the teacher gives us to do at home every night if I
didn't get Judy Pineau to help me. Judy isn't a good reader and she
can't spell AT ALL, but you can't stick her in arithmetic as far as she
went herself. I feel sure," concluded poor Sara, in a hopeless tone,
"that I'll NEVER be able to understand compound multiplication."
"'Multiplication is vexation,
Division is as bad,
The rule of three perplexes me,
And fractions drive me mad,'"
"I haven't got as far as fractions yet," sighed Sara, "and I hope
I'll be too big to go to school before I do. I hate arithmetic, but I
am PASSIONATELY fond of geography."
"I will not play tit-tat-x on the fly leaves of my hymn book in
church," wrote Peter.
"Mercy, did you ever do such a thing?" exclaimed Felicity in
Peter nodded shamefacedly.
"Yes--that Sunday Mr. Bailey preached. He was so long-winded, I
got awful tired, and, anyway, he was talking about things I couldn't
understand, so I played tit-tat-x with one of the Markdale boys. It
was the day I was sitting up in the gallery."
"Well, I hope if you ever do the like again you won't do it in OUR
pew," said Felicity severely.
"I ain't going to do it at all," said Peter. "I felt sort of mean
all the rest of the day."
"I shall try not to be vexed when people interrupt me when I'm
telling stories," wrote the Story Girl. "but it will be hard," she
added with a sigh.
"I never mind being interrupted," said Felicity.
"I shall try to be cheerful and smiling all the time," wrote
"You are, anyway," said Sara Ray loyally.
"I don't believe we ought to be cheerful ALL the time," said the
Story Girl. "The Bible says we ought to weep with those who weep."
"But maybe it means that we're to weep cheerfully," suggested
"Sorter as if you were thinking, 'I'm very sorry for you but I'm
mighty glad I'm not in the scrape too,'" said Dan.
"Dan, don't be irreverent," rebuked Felicity.
"I know a story about old Mr. and Mrs. Davidson of Markdale," said
the Story Girl. "She was always smiling and it used to aggravate her
husband, so one day he said very crossly, 'Old lady, what ARE you
grinning at?' 'Oh, well, Abiram, everything's so bright and pleasant,
I've just got to smile.'
"Not long after there came a time when everything went wrong--the
crop failed and their best cow died, and Mrs. Davidson had rheumatism;
and finally Mr. Davidson fell and broke his leg. But still Mrs.
Davidson smiled. 'What in the dickens are you grinning about now, old
lady?' he demanded. 'Oh, well, Abiram,' she said, 'everything is so
dark and unpleasant I've just got to smile.' 'Well,' said the old man
crossly, 'I think you might give your face a rest sometimes.'"
"I shall not talk gossip," wrote Sara Ray with a satisfied air.
"Oh, don't you think that's a little TOO strict?" asked Cecily
anxiously. "Of course, it's not right to talk MEAN gossip, but the
harmless kind doesn't hurt. If I say to you that Emmy MacPhail is
going to get a new fur collar this winter, THAT is harmless gossip, but
if I say I don't see how Emmy MacPhail can afford a new fur collar when
her father can't pay my father for the oats he got from him, that would
be MEAN gossip. If I were you, Sara, I'd put MEAN gossip."
Sara consented to this amendment.
"I will be polite to everybody," was my third resolution, which
passed without comment.
"I'll try not to use slang since Cecily doesn't like it," wrote
"I think some slang is real cute," said Felicity.
"The Family Guide says it's very vulgar," grinned Dan. "Doesn't
it, Sara Stanley?"
"Don't disturb me," said the Story Girl dreamily. "I'm just
thinking a beautiful thought."
"I've thought of a resolution to make," cried Felicity. "Mr.
Marwood said last Sunday we should always try to think beautiful
thoughts and then our lives would be very beautiful. So I shall
resolve to think a beautiful thought every morning before breakfast."
"Can you only manage one a day?" queried Dan.
"And why before breakfast?" I asked.
"Because it's easier to think on an empty stomach," said Peter, in
all good faith. But Felicity shot a furious glance at him.
"I selected that time," she explained with dignity, "because when
I'm brushing my hair before my glass in the morning I'll see my
resolution and remember it."
"Mr. Marwood meant that ALL our thoughts ought to be beautiful,"
said the Story Girl. "If they were, people wouldn't be afraid to say
what they think."
"They oughtn't to be afraid to, anyhow," said Felix stoutly. "I'm
going to make a resolution to say just what I think always."
"And do you expect to get through the year alive if you do?" asked
"It might be easy enough to say what you think if you could always
be sure just what you DO think," said the Story Girl. "So often I
can't be sure."
"How would you like it if people always said just what they think
to you?" asked Felicity.
"I'm not very particular what SOME people think of me," rejoined
"I notice you don't like to be told by anybody that you're fat,"
"Oh, dear me, I do wish you wouldn't all say such sarcastic things
to each other," said poor Cecily plaintively. "It sounds so horrid the
last night of the old year. Dear knows where we'll all be this night
next year. Peter, it's your turn."
"I will try," wrote Peter, "to say my prayers every night regular,
and not twice one night because I don't expect to have time the
next,--like I did the night before the party," he added.
"I s'pose you never said your prayers until we got you to go to
church," said Felicity--who had had no hand in inducing Peter to go to
church, but had stoutly opposed it, as recorded in the first volume of
our family history.
"I did, too," said Peter. "Aunt Jane taught me to say my prayers.
Ma hadn't time, being as father had run away; ma had to wash at night
same as in day-time."
"I shall learn to cook," wrote the Story Girl, frowning.
"You'd better resolve not to make puddings of--" began Felicity,
then stopped as suddenly as if she had bitten off the rest of her
sentence and swallowed it. Cecily had nudged her, so she had probably
remembered the Story Girl's threat that she would never tell another
story if she was ever twitted with the pudding she had made from
sawdust. But we all knew what Felicity had started to say and the
Story Girl dealt her a most uncousinly glance.
"I will not cry because mother won't starch my aprons," wrote Sara
"Better resolve not to cry about anything," said Dan kindly.
Sara Ray shook her head forlornly.
"That would be too hard to keep. There are times when I HAVE to
cry. It's a relief."
"Not to the folks who have to hear you," muttered Dan aside to
"Oh, hush," whispered Cecily back. "Don't go and hurt her feelings
the last night of the old year. Is it my turn again? Well, I'll
resolve not to worry because my hair is not curly. But, oh, I'll never
be able to help wishing it was."
"Why don't you curl it as you used to do, then?" asked Dan.
"You know very well that I've never put my hair up in curl papers
since the time Peter was dying of the measles," said Cecily
reproachfully. "I resolved then I wouldn't because I wasn't sure it
was quite right."
"I will keep my finger-nails neat and clean," I wrote. "There,
that's four resolutions. I'm not going to make any more. Four's
"I shall always think twice before I speak," wrote Felix.
"That's an awful waste of time," commented Dan, "but I guess you'll
need to if you're always going to say what you think."
"I'm going to stop with three," said Peter.
"I will have all the good times I can," wrote the Story Girl.
"THAT'S what I call sensible," said Dan.
"It's a very easy resolution to keep, anyhow," commented Felix.
"I shall try to like reading the Bible," wrote Sara Ray.
"You ought to like reading the Bible without trying to," exclaimed
"If you had to read seven chapters of it every time you were
naughty I don't believe you would like it either," retorted Sara Ray
with a flash of spirit.
"I shall try to believe only half of what I hear," was Cecily's
"But which half?" scoffed Dan.
"The best half," said sweet Cecily simply.
"I'll try to obey mother ALWAYS," wrote Sara Ray, with a tremendous
sigh, as if she fully realized the difficulty of keeping such a
resolution. "And that's all I'm going to make."
"Felicity has only made one," said the Story Girl.
"I think it better to make just one and keep it than make a lot and
break them," said Felicity loftily.
She had the last word on the subject, for it was time for Sara Ray
to go, and our circle broke up. Sara and Felix departed and we watched
them down the lane in the moonlight--Sara walking demurely in one
runner track, and Felix stalking grimly along in the other. I fear the
romantic beauty of that silver shining night was entirely thrown away
on my mischievous brother.
And it was, as I remember it, a most exquisite night--a white poem,
a frosty, starry lyric of light. It was one of those nights on which
one might fall asleep and dream happy dreams of gardens of mirth and
song, feeling all the while through one's sleep the soft splendour and
radiance of the white moon-world outside, as one hears soft, far-away
music sounding through the thoughts and words that are born of it.
As a matter of fact, however, Cecily dreamed that night that she
saw three full moons in the sky, and wakened up crying with the horror
CHAPTER V. THE FIRST NUMBER OF Our
The first number of Our Magazine was ready on New Year's Day, and
we read it that evening in the kitchen. All our staff had worked nobly
and we were enormously proud of the result, although Dan still
continued to scoff at a paper that wasn't printed. The Story Girl and
I read it turnabout while the others, except Felix, ate apples. It
opened with a short
With this number Our Magazine makes its first bow to the public.
All the editors have done their best and the various departments are
full of valuable information and amusement. The tastefully designed
cover is by a famous artist, Mr. Blair Stanley, who sent it to us all
the way from Europe at the request of his daughter. Mr. Peter Craig,
our enterprising literary editor, contributes a touching love story.
(Peter, aside, in a gratified pig's whisper: "I never was called 'Mr.'
before.") Miss Felicity King's essays on Shakespeare is none the worse
for being an old school composition, as it is new to most of our
readers. Miss Cecily King contributes a thrilling article of
adventure. The various departments are ably edited, and we feel that
we have reason to be proud of Our Magazine. But we shall not rest on
our oars. "Excelsior" shall ever be our motto. We trust that each
succeeding issue will be better than the one that went before. We are
well aware of many defects, but it is easier to see them than to remedy
them. Any suggestion that would tend to the improvement of Our
Magazine will be thankfully received, but we trust that no criticism
will be made that will hurt anyone's feelings. Let us all work
together in harmony, and strive to make Our Magazine an influence for
good and a source of innocent pleasure, and let us always remember the
words of the poet.
"The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upwards in the night."
(Peter, IMPRESSIVELY:--"I've read many a worse editorial in the
ESSAY ON SHAKESPEARE
Shakespeare's full name was William Shakespeare. He did not always
spell it the same way. He lived in the reign of Queen Elizabeth and
wrote a great many plays. His plays are written in dialogue form.
Some people think they were not written by Shakespeare but by another
man of the same name. I have read some of them because our school
teacher says everybody ought to read them, but I did not care much for
them. There are some things in them I cannot understand. I like the
stories of Valeria H. Montague in the Family Guide ever so much better.
They are more exciting and truer to life. Romeo and Juliet was one of
the plays I read. It was very sad. Juliet dies and I don't like
stories where people die. I like it better when they all get married
especially to dukes and earls. Shakespeare himself was married to Anne
Hatheway. They are both dead now. They have been dead a good while.
He was a very famous man.
(PETER, MODESTLY: "I don't know much about Shakespeare myself but
I've got a book of his plays that belonged to my Aunt Jane, and I guess
I'll have to tackle him as soon as I finish with the Bible.")
THE STORY OF AN ELOPEMENT FROM CHURCH
This is a true story. It happened in Markdale to an uncle of my
mothers. He wanted to marry Miss Jemima Parr. Felicity says Jemima is
not a romantic name for a heroin of a story but I cant help it in this
case because it is a true story and her name realy was Jemima. My
mothers uncle was named Thomas Taylor. He was poor at that time and so
the father of Miss Jemima Parr did not want him for a soninlaw and told
him he was not to come near the house or he would set the dog on him.
Miss Jemima Parr was very pretty and my mothers uncle Thomas was just
crazy about her and she wanted him too. She cried almost every night
after her father forbid him to come to the house except the nights she
had to sleep or she would have died. And she was so frightened he
might try to come for all and get tore up by the dog and it was a
bull-dog too that would never let go. But mothers uncle Thomas was too
cute for that. He waited till one day there was preaching in the
Markdale church in the middle of the week because it was sacrament time
and Miss Jemima Parr and her family all went because her father was an
elder. My mothers uncle Thomas went too and set in the pew just behind
Miss Jemima Parrs family. When they all bowed their heads at prayer
time Miss Jemima Parr didnt but set bolt uprite and my mothers uncle
Thomas bent over and wispered in her ear. I dont know what he said so
I cant right it but Miss Jemima Parr blushed that is turned red and
nodded her head. Perhaps some people may think that my mothers uncle
Thomas shouldent of wispered at prayer time in church but you must
remember that Miss Jemima Parrs father had thretened to set the dog on
him and that was hard lines when he was a respektable young man though
not rich. Well when they were singing the last sam my mothers uncle
Thomas got up and went out very quitely and as soon as church was out
Miss Jemima Parr walked out too real quick. Her family never suspekted
anything and they hung round talking to folks and shaking hands while
Miss Jemima Parr and my mothers uncle Thomas were eloping outside. And
what do you suppose they eloped in. Why in Miss Jemima Parrs fathers
slay. And when he went out they were gone and his slay was gone also
his horse. Of course my mothers uncle Thomas didnt steal the horse.
He just borroed it and sent it home the next day. But before Miss
Jemima Parrs father could get another rig to follow them they were so
far away he couldent catch them before they got married. And they
lived happy together forever afterwards. Mothers uncle Thomas lived to
be a very old man. He died very suddent. He felt quite well when he
went to sleep and when he woke up he was dead.
MY MOST EXCITING ADVENTURE
The editor says we must all write up our most exciting adventure
for Our Magazine. My most exciting adventure happened a year ago last
November. I was nearly frightened to death. Dan says he wouldn't of
been scared and Felicity says she would of known what it was but it's
easy to talk.
It happened the night I went down to see Kitty Marr. I thought
when I went that Aunt Olivia was visiting there and I could come home
with her. But she wasn't there and I had to come home alone. Kitty
came a piece of the way but she wouldn't come any further than Uncle
James Frewen's gate. She said it was because it was so windy she was
afraid she would get the tooth-ache and not because she was frightened
of the ghost of the dog that haunted the bridge in Uncle James' hollow.
I did wish she hadn't said anything about the dog because I mightn't
of thought about it if she hadn't. I had to go on alone thinking of
it. I'd heard the story often but I'd never believed in it. They said
the dog used to appear at one end of the bridge and walk across it with
people and vanish when he got to the other end. He never tried to bite
anyone but one wouldn't want to meet the ghost of a dog even if one
didn't believe in him. I knew there was no such thing as ghosts and I
kept saying a paraphrase over to myself and the Golden Text of the next
Sunday School lesson but oh, how my heart beat when I got near the
hollow! It was so dark. You could just see things dim- like but you
couldn't see what they were. When I got to the bridge I walked along
sideways with my back to the railing so I couldn't think the dog was
behind me. And then just in the middle of the bridge I met something.
It was right before me and it was big and black, just about the size
of a Newfoundland dog, and I thought I could see a white nose. And it
kept jumping about from one side of the bridge to the other. Oh, I
hope none of my readers will ever be so frightened as I was then. I
was too frightened to run back because I was afraid it would chase me
and I couldn't get past it, it moved so quick, and then it just made
one spring right on me and I felt its claws and I screamed and fell
down. It rolled off to one side and laid there quite quiet but I
didn't dare move and I don't know what would have become of me if Amos
Cowan hadn't come along that very minute with a lantern. And there was
me sitting in the middle of the bridge and that awful thing beside me.
And what do you think it was but a big umbrella with a white handle?
Amos said it was his umbrella and it had blown away from him and he
had to go back and get the lantern to look for it. I felt like asking
him what on earth he was going about with an umbrella open when it
wasent raining. But the Cowans do such queer things. You remember the
time Jerry Cowan sold us God's picture. Amos took me right home and I
was thankful for I don't know what would have become of me if he hadn't
come along. I couldn't sleep all night and I never want to have any
more adventures like that one.
Mr. Dan King felt somewhat indisposed the day after Christmas--
probably as the result of too much mince pie. (DAN, INDIGNANTLY:-- "I
wasn't. I only et one piece!")
Mr. Peter Craig thinks he saw the Family Ghost on Christmas Eve.
But the rest of us think all he saw was the white calf with the red
tail. (PETER, MUTTERING SULKILY:--"It's a queer calf that would walk
up on end and wring its hands.")
Miss Cecily King spent the night of Dec. 20th with Miss Kitty Marr.
They talked most of the night about new knitted lace patterns and
their beaus and were very sleepy in school next day. (CECILY,
SHARPLY:--"We never mentioned such things!")
Patrick Grayfur, Esq., was indisposed yesterday, but seems to be
enjoying his usual health to-day.
The King family expect their Aunt Eliza to visit them in January.
She is really our great-aunt. We have never seen her but we are told
she is very deaf and does not like children. So Aunt Janet says we
must make ourselves scarece when she comes.
Miss Cecily King has undertaken to fill with names a square of the
missionary quilt which the Mission Band is making. You pay five cents
to have your name embroidered in a corner, ten cents to have it in the
centre, and a quarter if you want it left off altogether. (CECILY,
INDIGNANTLY:--"That isn't the way at all.")
WANTED--A remedy to make a fat boy thin. Address, "Patient
Sufferer, care of Our Magazine."
(FELIX, SOURLY:--"Sara Ray never got that up. I'll bet it was Dan.
He'd better stick to his own department.")
Mrs. Alexander King killed all her geese the twentieth of December.
We all helped pick them. We had one Christmas Day and will have one
every fortnight the rest of the winter.
The bread was sour last week because mother wouldn't take my
advice. I told her it was too warm for it in the corner behind the
Miss Felicity King invented a new recete for date cookies recently,
which everybody said were excelent. I am not going to publish it
though, because I don't want other people to find it out.
ANXIOUS INQUIRER:--If you want to remove inkstains place the stain
over steam and apply salt and lemon juice. If it was Dan who sent this
question in I'd advise him to stop wiping his pen on his shirt sleeves
and then he wouldn't have so many stains.
F-l-x:--Yes, you should offer your arm to a lady when seeing her
home, but don't keep her standing too long at the gate while you say
(FELIX, ENRAGED:--"I never asked such a question.")
C-c-l-y:--No, it is not polite to use "Holy Moses" or "dodgasted"
in ordinary conversation.
(Cecily had gone down cellar to replenish the apple plate, so this
passed without protest.)
S-r-a:--No, it isn't polite to cry all the time. As to whether you
should ask a young man in, it all depends on whether he went home with
you of his own accord or was sent by some elderly relative.
F-l-t-y:--It does not break any rule of etiquette if you keep a
button off your best young man's coat for a keepsake. But don't take
more than one or his mother might miss them.
Knitted mufflers are much more stylish than crocheted ones this
winter. It is nice to have one the same colour as your cap.
Red mittens with a black diamond pattern on the back are much run
after. Em Frewen's grandma knits hers for her. She can knit the
double diamond pattern and Em puts on such airs about it, but I think
the single diamond is in better taste.
The new winter hats at Markdale are very pretty. It is so exciting
to pick a hat. Boys can't have that fun. Their hats are so much
This is a true joke and really happened.
There was an old local preacher in New Brunswick one time whose
name was Samuel Clask. He used to preach and pray and visit the sick
just like a regular minister. One day he was visiting a neighbour who
was dying and he prayed the Lord to have mercy on him because he was
very poor and had worked so hard all his life that he hadn't much time
to attend to religion.
"And if you don't believe me, O Lord," Mr. Clask finished up with,
"just take a look at his hands."
GENERAL INFORMATION BUREAU
DAN:--Do porpoises grow on trees or vines?
Ans. Neither. They inhabit the deep sea.
(DAN, AGGRIEVED:--"Well, I'd never heard of porpoises and it
sounded like something that grew. But you needn't have gone and put it
in the paper."
FELIX:--"It isn't any worse than the things you put in about me
that I never asked at all."
CECILY, SOOTHINGLY:--"Oh, well, boys, it's all in fun, and I think
Our Magazine is perfectly elegant."
FELICITY, FAILING TO SEE THE STORY GIRL AND BEVERLEY EXCHANGING
WINKS BEHIND HER BACK:--"It certainly is, though SOME PEOPLE were so
opposed to starting it.")
What harmless, happy fooling it all was! How we laughed as we read
and listened and devoured apples! Blow high, blow low, no wind can
ever quench the ruddy glow of that faraway winter night in our
memories. And though Our Magazine never made much of a stir in the
world, or was the means of hatching any genius, it continued to be
capital fun for us throughout the year.
CHAPTER VI. GREAT-AUNT ELIZA'S VISIT
It was a diamond winter day in February--clear, cold, hard,
brilliant. The sharp blue sky shone, the white fields and hills
glittered, the fringe of icicles around the eaves of Uncle Alec's house
sparkled. Keen was the frost and crisp the snow over our world; and we
young fry of the King households were all agog to enjoy life--for was
it not Saturday, and were we not left all alone to keep house?
Aunt Janet and Aunt Olivia had had their last big "kill" of market
poultry the day before; and early in the morning all our grown-ups set
forth to Charlottetown, to be gone the whole day. They left us many
charges as usual, some of which we remembered and some of which we
forgot; but with Felicity in command none of us dared stray far out of
line. The Story Girl and Peter came over, of course, and we all agreed
that we would haste and get the work done in the forenoon, that we
might have an afternoon of uninterrupted enjoyment. A taffy-pull after
dinner and then a jolly hour of coasting on the hill field before
supper were on our programme. But disappointment was our portion. We
did manage to get the taffy made but before we could sample the result
satisfactorily, and just as the girls were finishing with the washing
of the dishes, Felicity glanced out of the window and exclaimed in
tones of dismay,
"Oh, dear me, here's Great-aunt Eliza coming up the lane! Now,
isn't that too mean?"
We all looked out to see a tall, gray-haired lady approaching the
house, looking about her with the slightly puzzled air of a stranger.
We had been expecting Great-aunt Eliza's advent for some weeks, for
she was visiting relatives in Markdale. We knew she was liable to
pounce down on us any time, being one of those delightful folk who like
to "surprise" people, but we had never thought of her coming that
particular day. It must be confessed that we did not look forward to
her visit with any pleasure. None of us had ever seen her, but we knew
she was very deaf, and had very decided opinions as to the way in which
children should behave.
"Whew!" whistled Dan. "We're in for a jolly afternoon. She's deaf
as a post and we'll have to split our throats to make her hear at all.
I've a notion to skin out."
"Oh, don't talk like that, Dan," said Cecily reproachfully. "She's
old and lonely and has had a great deal of trouble. She has buried
three husbands. We must be kind to her and do the best we can to make
her visit pleasant."
"She's coming to the back door," said Felicity, with an agitated
glance around the kitchen. "I told you, Dan, that you should have
shovelled the snow away from the front door this morning. Cecily, set
those pots in the pantry quick--hide those boots, Felix--shut the
cupboard door, Peter--Sara, straighten up the lounge. She's awfully
particular and ma says her house is always as neat as wax."
To do Felicity justice, while she issued orders to the rest of us,
she was flying busily about herself, and it was amazing how much was
accomplished in the way of putting the kitchen in perfect order during
the two minutes in which Great-aunt Eliza was crossing the yard.
"Fortunately the sitting-room is tidy and there's plenty in the
pantry," said Felicity, who could face anything undauntedly with a
well-stocked larder behind her.
Further conversation was cut short by a decided rap at the door.
Felicity opened it.
"Why, how do you do, Aunt Eliza?" she said loudly.
A slightly bewildered look appeared on Aunt Eliza's face. Felicity
perceived she had not spoken loudly enough.
"How do you do, Aunt Eliza," she repeated at the top of her voice.
"Come in--we are glad to see you. We've been looking for you for ever
"Are your father and mother at home?" asked Aunt Eliza, slowly.
"No, they went to town today. But they'll be home this evening."
"I'm sorry they're away," said Aunt Eliza, coming in, "because I
can stay only a few hours."
"Oh, that's too bad," shouted poor Felicity, darting an angry
glance at the rest of us, as if to demand why we didn't help her out.
"Why, we've been thinking you'd stay a week with us anyway. You MUST
stay over Sunday."
"I really can't. I have to go to Charlottetown tonight," returned
"Well, you'll take off your things and stay to tea, at least,"
urged Felicity, as hospitably as her strained vocal chords would admit.
"Yes, I think I'll do that. I want to get acquainted with my--my
nephews and nieces," said Aunt Eliza, with a rather pleasant glance
around our group. If I could have associated the thought of such a
thing with my preconception of Great-aunt Eliza I could have sworn
there was a twinkle in her eye. But of course it was impossible.
"Won't you introduce yourselves, please?"
Felicity shouted our names and Great-aunt Eliza shook hands all
round. She performed the duty grimly and I concluded I must have been
mistaken about the twinkle. She was certainly very tall and dignified
and imposing--altogether a great-aunt to be respected.
Felicity and Cecily took her to the spare room and then left her in
the sitting-room while they returned to the kitchen, to discuss the
matter in family conclave.
"Well, and what do you think of dear Aunt Eliza?" asked Dan.
"S-s-s-sh," warned Cecily, with a glance at the half-open hall
"Pshaw," scoffed Dan, "she can't hear us. There ought to be a law
against anyone being as deaf as that."
"She's not so old-looking as I expected," said Felix. "If her hair
wasn't so white she wouldn't look much older than your mother."
"You don't have to be very old to be a great-aunt," said Cecily.
"Kitty Marr has a great-aunt who is just the same age as her mother.
I expect it was burying so many husbands turned her hair white. But
Aunt Eliza doesn't look just as I expected she would either."
"She's dressed more stylishly than I expected," said Felicity. "I
thought she'd be real old-fashioned, but her clothes aren't too bad at
"She wouldn't be bad-looking if 'tweren't for her nose," said
Peter. "It's too long, and crooked besides."
"You needn't criticize our relations like that," said Felicity
"Well, aren't you doing it yourselves?" expostulated Peter.
"That's different," retorted Felicity. "Never you mind Great-aunt
"Well, don't expect me to talk to her," said Dan, "'cause I won't."
"I'm going to be very polite to her," said Felicity. "She's rich.
But how are we to entertain her, that's the question."
"What does the Family Guide say about entertaining your rich, deaf
old aunt?" queried Dan ironically.
"The Family Guide says we should be polite to EVERYBODY," said
Cecily, with a reproachful look at Dan.
"The worst of it is," said Felicity, looking worried, "that there
isn't a bit of old bread in the house and she can't eat new, I've heard
father say. It gives her indigestion. What will we do?"
"Make a pan of rusks and apologize for having no old bread,"
suggested the Story Girl, probably by way of teasing Felicity. The
latter, however, took it in all good faith.
"The Family Guide says we should never apologize for things we
can't help. It says it's adding insult to injury to do it. But you
run over home for a loaf of stale bread, Sara, and it's a good idea
about the rusks. I'll make a panful."
"Let me make them," said the Story Girl, eagerly. "I can make real
good rusks now."
"No, it wouldn't do to trust you," said Felicity mercilessly. "You
might make some queer mistake and Aunt Eliza would tell it all over the
country. She's a fearful old gossip. I'll make the rusks myself. She
hates cats, so we mustn't let Paddy be seen. And she's a Methodist, so
mind nobody says anything against Methodists to her."
"Who's going to say anything, anyhow?" asked Peter belligerently.
"I wonder if I might ask her for her name for my quilt square?"
speculated Cecily. "I believe I will. She looks so much friendlier
than I expected. Of course she'll choose the five-cent section. She's
an estimable old lady, but very economical."
"Why don't you say she's so mean she'd skin a flea for its hide and
tallow?" said Dan. "That's the plain truth."
"Well, I'm going to see about getting tea," said Felicity, "so the
rest of you will have to entertain her. You better go in and show her
the photographs in the album. Dan, you do it."
"Thank you, that's a girl's job," said Dan. "I'd look nice sitting
up to Aunt Eliza and yelling out that this was Uncle Jim and 'tother
Cousin Sarah's twins, wouldn't I? Cecily or the Story Girl can do it."
"I don't know all the pictures in your album," said the Story Girl
"I s'pose I'll have to do it, though I don't like to," sighed
Cecily. "But we ought to go in. We've left her alone too long now.
She'll think we have no manners."
Accordingly we all filed in rather reluctantly. Great-aunt Eliza
was toasting her toes--clad, as we noted, in very smart and shapely
shoes--at the stove and looking quite at her ease. Cecily, determined
to do her duty even in the face of such fearful odds as Great-aunt
Eliza's deafness, dragged a ponderous, plush- covered album from its
corner and proceeded to display and explain the family photographs.
She did her brave best but she could not shout like Felicity, and half
the time, as she confided to me later on, she felt that Great-aunt
Eliza did not hear one word she said, because she didn't seem to take
in who the people were, though, just like all deaf folks, she wouldn't
let on. Great-aunt Eliza certainly didn't talk much; she looked at the
photographs in silence, but she smiled now and then. That smile
bothered me. It was so twinkly and so very un-great-aunt-Elizaish.
But I felt indignant with her. I thought she might have shown a
little more appreciation of Cecily's gallant efforts to entertain.
It was very dull for the rest of us. The Story Girl sat rather
sulkily in her corner; she was angry because Felicity would not let her
make the rusks, and also, perhaps, a little vexed because she could not
charm Great-aunt Eliza with her golden voice and story-telling gift.
Felix and I looked at each other and wished ourselves out in the hill
field, careering gloriously adown its gleaming crust.
But presently a little amusement came our way. Dan, who was
sitting behind Great-aunt Eliza, and consequently out of her view,
began making comments on Cecily's explanation of this one and that one
among the photographs. In vain Cecily implored him to stop. It was
too good fun to give up. For the next half-hour the dialogue ran after
this fashion, while Peter and Felix and I, and even the Story Girl,
suffered agonies trying to smother our bursts of laughter--for
Great-aunt Eliza could see if she couldn't hear:
CECILY, SHOUTING:--"That is Mr. Joseph Elliott of Markdale, a
second cousin of mother's."
DAN:--"Don't brag of it, Sis. He's the man who was asked if
somebody else said something in sincerity and old Joe said 'No, he said
it in my cellar.'"
CECILY:--"This isn't anybody in our family. It's little Xavy
Gautier who used to be hired with Uncle Roger."
DAN:--"Uncle Roger sent him to fix a gate one day and scolded him
because he didn't do it right, and Xavy was mad as hops and said 'How
you 'spect me to fix dat gate? I never learned jogerfy.'"
CECILY, WITH AN ANGUISHED GLANCE AT DAN:--"This is Great-uncle
DAN:--"He's been married four times. Don't you think that's often
enough, dear great-aunty?"
CECILY:--"(Dan!!) This is a nephew of Mr. Ambrose Marr's. He lives
out west and teaches school."
DAN:--"Yes, and Uncle Roger says he doesn't know enough not to
sleep in a field with the gate open."
CECILY:--"This is Miss Julia Stanley, who used to teach in Carlisle
a few years ago."
DAN:--"When she resigned the trustees had a meeting to see if
they'd ask her to stay and raise her supplement. Old Highland Sandy
was alive then and he got up and said, 'If she for go let her for went.
Perhaps she for marry.'"
CECILY, WITH THE AIR OF A MARTYR:--"This is Mr. Layton, who used to
travel around selling Bibles and hymn books and Talmage's sermons."
DAN:--"He was so thin Uncle Roger used to say he always mistook him
for a crack in the atmosphere. One time he stayed here all night and
went to prayer meeting and Mr. Marwood asked him to lead in prayer. It
had been raining 'most every day for three weeks, and it was just in
haymaking time, and everybody thought the hay was going to be ruined,
and old Layton got up and prayed that God would send gentle showers on
the growing crops, and I heard Uncle Roger whisper to a fellow behind
me, 'If somebody don't choke him off we won't get the hay made this
CECILY, IN EXASPERATION:--"(Dan, shame on you for telling such
irreverent stories.) This is Mrs. Alexander Scott of Markdale. She has
been very sick for a long time."
DAN:--"Uncle Roger says all that keeps her alive is that she's
scared her husband will marry again."
CECILY:--"This is old Mr. James MacPherson who used to live behind
DAN:--"He's the man who told mother once that he always made his
own iodine out of strong tea and baking soda."
CECILY:--"This is Cousin Ebenezer MacPherson on the Markdale road."
DAN:--"Great temperance man! He never tasted rum in his life. He
took the measles when he was forty-five and was crazy as a loon with
them, and the doctor ordered them to give him a dose of brandy. When
he swallowed it he looked up and says, solemn as an owl, 'Give it to me
oftener and more at a time.'"
CECILY, IMPLORINGLY:--"(Dan, do stop. You make me so nervous I
don't know what I'm doing.) This is Mr. Lemuel Goodridge. He is a
DAN:--"You ought to see his mouth. Uncle Roger says the drawing
string has fell out of it. It just hangs loose--so fashion."
Dan, whose own mouth was far from being beautiful, here gave an
imitation of the Rev. Lemuel's, to the utter undoing of Peter, Felix,
and myself. Our wild guffaws of laughter penetrated even Great-aunt
Eliza's deafness, and she glanced up with a startled face. What we
would have done I do not know had not Felicity at that moment appeared
in the doorway with panic-stricken eyes and exclaimed,
"Cecily, come here for a moment."
Cecily, glad of even a temporary respite, fled to the kitchen and
we heard her demanding what was the matter.
"Matter!" exclaimed Felicity, tragically. "Matter enough! Some of
you left a soup plate with molasses in it on the pantry table and Pat
got into it and what do you think? He went into the spare room and
walked all over Aunt Eliza's things on the bed. You can see his tracks
plain as plain. What in the world can we do? She'll be simply
I looked apprehensively at Great-aunt Eliza; but she was gazing
intently at a picture of Aunt Janet's sister's twins, a most stolid,
uninteresting pair; but evidently Great-aunt Eliza found them amusing
for she was smiling widely over them.
"Let us take a little clean water and a soft bit of cotton," came
Cecily's clear voice from the kitchen, "and see if we can't clean the
molasses off. The coat and hat are both cloth, and molasses isn't like
"Well, we can try, but I wish the Story Girl would keep her cat
home," grumbled Felicity.
The Story Girl here flew out to defend her pet, and we four boys
sat on, miserably conscious of Great-aunt Eliza, who never said a word
to us, despite her previously expressed desire to become acquainted
with us. She kept on looking at the photographs and seemed quite
oblivious of our presence.
Presently the girls returned, having, as transpired later, been so
successful in removing the traces of Paddy's mischief that it was not
deemed necessary to worry Great-aunt Eliza with any account of it.
Felicity announced tea and, while Cecily conveyed Great-aunt Eliza out
to the dining-room, lingered behind to consult with us for a moment.
"Ought we to ask her to say grace?" she wanted to know.
"I know a story," said the Story Girl, "about Uncle Roger when he
was just a young man. He went to the house of a very deaf old lady and
when they sat down to the table she asked him to say grace. Uncle
Roger had never done such a thing in his life and he turned as red as a
beet and looked down and muttered, 'E-r-r, please excuse me--I--I'm not
accustomed to doing that.' Then he looked up and the old lady said
'Amen,' loudly and cheerfully. She thought Uncle Roger was saying
grace all the time."
"I don't think it's right to tell funny stories about such things,"
said Felicity coldly. "And I asked for your opinion, not for a story."
"If we don't ask her, Felix must say it, for he's the only one who
can, and we must have it, or she'd be shocked."
"Oh, ask her--ask her," advised Felix hastily.
She was asked accordingly and said grace without any hesitation,
after which she proceeded to eat heartily of the excellent supper
Felicity had provided. The rusks were especially good and Great- aunt
Eliza ate three of them and praised them. Apart from that she said
little and during the first part of the meal we sat in embarrassed
silence. Towards the last, however, our tongues were loosened, and the
Story Girl told us a tragic tale of old Charlottetown and a governor's
wife who had died of a broken heart in the early days of the colony.
"They say that story isn't true," said Felicity. "They say what
she really died of was indigestion. The Governor's wife who lives
there now is a relation of our own. She is a second cousin of father's
but we've never seen her. Her name was Agnes Clark. And mind you,
when father was a young man he was dead in love with her and so was she
"Who ever told you that?" exclaimed Dan.
"Aunt Olivia. And I've heard ma teasing father about it, too. Of
course, it was before father got acquainted with mother."
"Why didn't your father marry her?" I asked.
"Well, she just simply wouldn't marry him in the end. She got over
being in love with him. I guess she was pretty fickle. Aunt Olivia
said father felt awful about it for awhile, but he got over it when he
met ma. Ma was twice as good-looking as Agnes Clark. Agnes was a
sight for freckles, so Aunt Olivia says. But she and father remained
real good friends. Just think, if she had married him we would have
been the children of the Governor's wife."
"But she wouldn't have been the Governor's wife then," said Dan.
"I guess it's just as good being father's wife," declared Cecily
"You might think so if you saw the Governor," chuckled Dan. "Uncle
Roger says it would be no harm to worship him because he doesn't look
like anything in the heavens above or on the earth beneath or the
waters under the earth."
"Oh, Uncle Roger just says that because he's on the opposite side
of politics," said Cecily. "The Governor isn't really so very ugly. I
saw him at the Markdale picnic two years ago. He's very fat and bald
and red-faced, but I've seen far worse looking men."
"I'm afraid your seat is too near the stove, Aunt Eliza," shouted
Our guest, whose face was certainly very much flushed, shook her
"Oh, no, I'm very comfortable," she said. But her voice had the
effect of making us uncomfortable. There was a queer, uncertain little
sound in it. Was Great-aunt Eliza laughing at us? We looked at her
sharply but her face was very solemn. Only her eyes had a suspicious
appearance. Somehow, we did not talk much more the rest of the meal.
When it was over Great-aunt Eliza said she was very sorry but she
must really go. Felicity politely urged her to stay, but was much
relieved when Great-aunt Eliza adhered to her intention of going. When
Felicity took her to the spare room Cecily slipped upstairs and
presently came back with a little parcel in her hand.
"What have you got there?" demanded Felicity suspiciously.
"A--a little bag of rose-leaves," faltered Cecily. "I thought I'd
give them to Aunt Eliza."
"The idea! Don't you do such a thing," said Felicity
contemptuously. "She'd think you were crazy."
"She was awfully nice when I asked her for her name for the quilt,"
protested Cecily, "and she took a ten-cent section after all. So I'd
like to give her the rose-leaves--and I'm going to, too, Miss
Great-aunt Eliza accepted the little gift quite graciously, bade us
all good-bye, said she had enjoyed herself very much, left messages for
father and mother, and finally betook herself away. We watched her
cross the yard, tall, stately, erect, and disappear down the lane.
Then, as often aforetime, we gathered together in the cheer of the red
hearth-flame, while outside the wind of a winter twilight sang through
fair white valleys brimmed with a reddening sunset, and a faint,
serene, silver-cold star glimmered over the willow at the gate.
"Well," said Felicity, drawing a relieved breath, "I'm glad she's
gone. She certainly is queer, just as mother said."
"It's a different kind of queerness from what I expected, though,"
said the Story Girl meditatively. "There's something I can't quite
make out about Aunt Eliza. I don't think I altogether like her."
"I'm precious sure I don't," said Dan.
"Oh, well, never mind. She's gone now and that's the last of it,"
said Cecily comfortingly .
But it wasn't the last of it--not by any manner of means was it!
When our grown-ups returned almost the first words Aunt Janet said
"And so you had the Governor's wife to tea?"
We all stared at her.
"I don't know what you mean," said Felicity. "We had nobody to tea
except Great-aunt Eliza. She came this afternoon and--"
"Great-aunt Eliza? Nonsense," said Aunt Janet. "Aunt Eliza was in
town today. She had tea with us at Aunt Louisa's. But wasn't Mrs.
Governor Lesley here? We met her on her way back to Charlottetown and
she told us she was. She said she was visiting a friend in Carlisle
and thought she'd call to see father for old acquaintance sake. What
in the world are all you children staring like that for? Your eyes are
"There was a lady here to tea," said Felicity miserably, "but we
thought it was Great-aunt Eliza--she never SAID she wasn't--I thought
she acted queer--and we all yelled at her as if she was deaf--and said
things to each other about her nose--and Pat running over her
"She must have heard all you said while I was showing her the
photographs, Dan," cried Cecily.
"And about the Governor at tea time," chuckled unrepentant Dan.
"I want to know what all this means," said Aunt Janet sternly.
She knew in due time, after she had pieced the story together from
our disjointed accounts. She was horrified, and Uncle Alec was mildly
disturbed, but Uncle Roger roared with laughter and Aunt Olivia echoed
"To think you should have so little sense!" said Aunt Janet in a
"I think it was real mean of her to pretend she was deaf," said
Felicity, almost on the verge of tears.
"That was Agnes Clark all over," chuckled Uncle Roger. "How she
must have enjoyed this afternoon!"
She had enjoyed it, as we learned the next day, when a letter came
"Dear Cecily and all the rest of you," wrote the Governor's wife,
"I want to ask you to forgive me for pretending to be Aunt Eliza. I
suspect it was a little horrid of me, but really I couldn't resist the
temptation, and if you will forgive me for it I will forgive you for
the things you said about the Governor, and we will all be good
friends. You know the Governor is a very nice man, though he has the
misfortune not to be handsome.
"I had just a splendid time at your place, and I envy your Aunt
Eliza her nephews and nieces. You were all so nice to me, and I didn't
dare to be a bit nice to you lest I should give myself away. But I'll
make up for that when you come to see me at Government House, as you
all must the very next time you come to town. I'm so sorry I didn't
see Paddy, for I love pussy cats, even if they do track molasses over
my clothes. And, Cecily, thank you ever so much for that little bag of
pot-pourri. It smells like a hundred rose gardens, and I have put it
between the sheets for my very sparest room bed, where you shall sleep
when you come to see me, you dear thing. And the Governor wants you to
put his name on the quilt square, too, in the ten-cent section.
"Tell Dan I enjoyed his comments on the photographs very much.
They were quite a refreshing contrast to the usual explanations of
'who's who.' And Felicity, your rusks were perfection. Do send me your
recipe for them, there's a darling.
"Yours most cordially,
AGNES CLARK LESLEY.
"Well, it was decent of her to apologize, anyhow," commented Dan.
"If we only hadn't said that about the Governor," moaned Felicity.
"How did you make your rusks?" asked Aunt Janet. "There was no
baking-powder in the house, and I never could get them right with soda
and cream of tartar."
"There was plenty of baking-powder in the pantry," said Felicity.
"No, there wasn't a particle. I used the last making those cookies
"But I found another can nearly full, away back on the top shelf,
ma,--the one with the yellow label. I guess you forgot it was there."
Aunt Janet stared at her pretty daughter blankly. Then amazement
gave place to horror.
"Felicity King!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean to tell me that
you raised those rusks with the stuff that was in that old yellow can?"
"Yes, I did," faltered Felicity, beginning to look scared. "Why,
ma, what was the matter with it?"
"Matter! That stuff was TOOTH-POWDER, that's what it was. Your
Cousin Myra broke the bottle her tooth-powder was in when she was here
last winter and I gave her that old can to keep it in. She forgot to
take it when she went away and I put it on that top shelf. I declare
you must all have been bewitched yesterday."
Poor, poor Felicity! If she had not always been so horribly vain
over her cooking and so scornfully contemptuous of other people's
aspirations and mistakes along that line, I could have found it in my
heart to pity her.
The Story Girl would have been more than human if she had not
betrayed a little triumphant amusement, but Peter stood up for his lady
"The rusks were splendid, anyhow, so what difference does it make
what they were raised with?"
Dan, however, began to taunt Felicity with her tooth-powder rusks,
and kept it up for the rest of his natural life.
"Don't forget to send the Governor's wife the recipe for them," he
Felicity, with eyes tearful and cheeks crimson from mortification,
rushed from the room, but never, never did the Governor's wife get the
recipe for those rusks.
CHAPTER VII. WE VISIT COUSIN MATTIE'S
One Saturday in March we walked over to Baywater, for a long-
talked-of visit to Cousin Mattie Dilke. By the road, Baywater was six
miles away, but there was a short cut across hills and fields and woods
which was scantly three. We did not look forward to our visit with any
particular delight, for there was nobody at Cousin Mattie's except
grown-ups who had been grown up so long that it was rather hard for
them to remember they had ever been children. But, as Felicity told
us, it was necessary to visit Cousin Mattie at least once a year, or
else she would be "huffed," so we concluded we might as well go and
have it over.
"Anyhow, we'll get a splendiferous dinner," said Dan. "Cousin
Mattie's a great cook and there's nothing stingy about her."
"You are always thinking of your stomach," said Felicity
"Well, you know I couldn't get along very well without it,
darling," responded Dan who, since New Year's, had adopted a new method
of dealing with Felicity--whether by way of keeping his resolution or
because he had discovered that it annoyed Felicity far more than angry
retorts, deponent sayeth not. He invariably met her criticisms with a
good-natured grin and a flippant remark with some tender epithet tagged
on to it. Poor Felicity used to get hopelessly furious over it.
Uncle Alec was dubious about our going that day. He looked abroad
on the general dourness of gray earth and gray air and gray sky, and
said a storm was brewing. But Cousin Mattie had been sent word that we
were coming, and she did not like to be disappointed, so he let us go,
warning us to stay with Cousin Mattie all night if the storm came on
while we were there.
We enjoyed our walk--even Felix enjoyed it, although he had been
appointed to write up the visit for Our Magazine and was rather weighed
down by the responsibility of it. What mattered it though the world
were gray and wintry? We walked the golden road and carried spring
time in our hearts, and we beguiled our way with laughter and jest, and
the tales the Story Girl told us--myths and legends of elder time.
The walking was good, for there had lately been a thaw and
everything was frozen. We went over fields, crossed by spidery trails
of gray fences, where the withered grasses stuck forlornly up through
the snow; we lingered for a time in a group of hill pines, great,
majestic tree-creatures, friends of evening stars; and finally struck
into the belt of fir and maple which intervened between Carlisle and
Baywater. It was in this locality that Peg Bowen lived, and our way
lay near her house though not directly in sight of it. We hoped we
would not meet her, for since the affair of the bewitchment of Paddy we
did not know quite what to think of Peg; the boldest of us held his
breath as we passed her haunts, and drew it again with a sigh of relief
when they were safely left behind.
The woods were full of the brooding stillness that often precedes a
storm, and the wind crept along their white, cone-sprinkled floors with
a low, wailing cry. Around us were solitudes of snow, arcades picked
out in pearl and silver, long avenues of untrodden marble whence sprang
the cathedral columns of the firs. We were all sorry when we were
through the woods and found ourselves looking down into the snug,
commonplace, farmstead-dotted settlement of Baywater.
"There's Cousin Mattie's house--that big white one at the turn of
the road," said the Story Girl. "I hope she has that dinner ready,
Dan. I'm hungry as a wolf after our walk."
"I wish Cousin Mattie's husband was still alive," said Dan. "He
was an awful nice old man. He always had his pockets full of nuts and
apples. I used to like going there better when he was alive. Too many
old women don't suit me."
"Oh, Dan, Cousin Mattie and her sisters-in-law are just as nice and
kind as they can be," reproached Cecily.
"Oh, they're kind enough, but they never seem to see that a fellow
gets over being five years old if he only lives long enough," retorted
"I know a story about Cousin Mattie's husband," said the Story
Girl. "His name was Ebenezer, you know--"
"Is it any wonder he was thin and stunted looking?" said Dan.
"Ebenezer is just as nice a name as Daniel," said Felicity.
"Do you REALLY think so, my angel?" inquired Dan, in honey-sweet
"Go on. Remember your second resolution," I whispered to the Story
Girl, who was stalking along with an outraged expression.
The Story Girl swallowed something and went on.
"Cousin Ebenezer had a horror of borrowing. He thought it was
simply a dreadful disgrace to borrow ANYTHING. Well, you know he and
Cousin Mattie used to live in Carlisle, where the Rays now live. This
was when Grandfather King was alive. One day Cousin Ebenezer came up
the hill and into the kitchen where all the family were. Uncle Roger
said he looked as if he had been stealing sheep. He sat for a whole
hour in the kitchen and hardly spoke a word, but just looked miserable.
At last he got up and said in a desperate sort of way, 'Uncle Abraham,
can I speak with you in private for a minute?' 'Oh, certainly,' said
grandfather, and took him into the parlour. Cousin Ebenezer shut the
door, looked all around him and then said imploringly, 'MORE PRIVATE
STILL.' So grandfather took him into the spare room and shut that door.
He was getting frightened. He thought something terrible must have
happened Cousin Ebenezer. Cousin Ebenezer came right up to
grandfather, took hold of the lapel of his coat, and said in a whisper,
'Uncle Abraham, CAN--YOU--LEND--ME--AN--AXE?'"
"He needn't have made such a mystery about it," said Cecily, who
had missed the point entirely, and couldn't see why the rest of us were
laughing. But Cecily was such a darling that we did not mind her lack
of a sense of humour.
"It's kind of mean to tell stories like that about people who are
dead," said Felicity.
"Sometimes it's safer than when they're alive though, sweetheart,"
We had our expected good dinner at Cousin Mattie's--may it be
counted unto her for righteousness. She and her sisters-in-law, Miss
Louisa Jane and Miss Caroline, were very kind to us. We had quite a
nice time, although I understood why Dan objected to them when they
patted us all on the head and told us whom we resembled and gave us
CHAPTER VIII. WE VISIT PEG BOWEN
We left Cousin Mattie's early, for it still looked like a storm,
though no more so than it had in the morning. We intended to go home
by a different path--one leading through cleared land overgrown with
scrub maple, which had the advantage of being farther away from Peg
Bowen's house. We hoped to be home before it began to storm, but we
had hardly reached the hill above the village when a fine, driving snow
began to fall. It would have been wiser to have turned back even then;
but we had already come a mile and we thought we would have ample time
to reach home before it became really bad. We were sadly mistaken; by
the time we had gone another half-mile we were in the thick of a
bewildering, blinding snowstorm. But it was by now just as far back to
Cousin Mattie's as it was to Uncle Alec's, so we struggled on, growing
more frightened at every step. We could hardly face the stinging snow,
and we could not see ten feet ahead of us. It had turned bitterly cold
and the tempest howled all around us in white desolation under the
fast-darkening night. The narrow path we were trying to follow soon
became entirely obliterated and we stumbled blindly on, holding to each
other, and trying to peer through the furious whirl that filled the
air. Our plight had come upon us so suddenly that we could not realize
it. Presently Peter, who was leading the van because he was supposed
to know the path best, stopped.
"I can't see the road any longer," he shouted. "I don't know where
We all stopped and huddled together in a miserable group. Fear
filled our hearts. It seemed ages ago that we had been snug and safe
and warm at Cousin Mattie's. Cecily began to cry with cold. Dan, in
spite of her protests, dragged off his overcoat and made her put it on.
"We can't stay here," he said. "We'll all freeze to death if we
do. Come on--we've got to keep moving. The snow ain't so deep yet.
Take hold of my hand, Cecily. We must all hold together. Come, now."
"It won't be nice to be frozen to death, but if we get through
alive think what a story we'll have to tell," said the Story Girl
between her chattering teeth.
In my heart I did not believe we would ever get through alive. It
was almost pitch dark now, and the snow grew deeper every moment. We
were chilled to the heart. I thought how nice it would be to lie down
and rest; but I remembered hearing that that was fatal, and I
endeavoured to stumble on with the others. It was wonderful how the
girls kept up, even Cecily. It occurred to me to be thankful that Sara
Ray was not with us.
But we were wholly lost now. All around us was a horror of great
darkness. Suddenly Felicity fell. We dragged her up, but she declared
she could not go on--she was done out.
"Have you any idea where we are?" shouted Dan to Peter.
"No," Peter shouted back, "the wind is blowing every which way. I
haven't any idea where home is."
Home! Would we ever see it again? We tried to urge Felicity on,
but she only repeated drowsily that she must lie down and rest.
Cecily, too, was reeling against me. The Story Girl still stood up
staunchly and counselled struggling on, but she was numb with cold and
her words were hardly distinguishable. Some wild idea was in my mind
that we must dig a hole in the snow and all creep into it. I had read
somewhere that people had thus saved their lives in snowstorms.
Suddenly Felix gave a shout.
"I see a light," he cried.
"Where? Where?" We all looked but could see nothing.
"I don't see it now but I saw it a moment ago," shouted Felix.
"I'm sure I did. Come on--over in this direction."
Inspired with fresh hope we hurried after him. Soon we all saw the
light--and never shone a fairer beacon. A few more steps and, coming
into the shelter of the woodland on the further side, we realized where
"That's Peg Bowen's house," exclaimed Peter, stopping short in
"I don't care whose house it is," declared Dan. "We've got to go
"I s'pose so," acquiesced Peter ruefully. "We can't freeze to
death even if she is a witch."
"For goodness' sake don't say anything about witches so close to
her house," gasped Felicity. "I'll be thankful to get in anywhere."
We reached the house, climbed the flight of steps that led to that
mysterious second story door, and Dan rapped. The door opened promptly
and Peg Bowen stood before us, in what seemed exactly the same costume
she had worn on the memorable day when we had come, bearing gifts, to
propitiate her in the matter of Paddy.
"Behind her was a dim room scantly illumined by the one small
candle that had guided us through the storm; but the old Waterloo stove
was colouring the gloom with tremulous, rose-red whorls of light, and
warm and cosy indeed seemed Peg's retreat to us snow- covered,
frost-chilled, benighted wanderers.
"Gracious goodness, where did yez all come from?" exclaimed Peg.
"Did they turn yez out?"
"We've been over to Baywater, and we got lost in the storm coming
back," explained Dan. "We didn't know where we were till we saw your
light. I guess we'll have to stay here till the storm is over--if you
"And if it won't inconvenience you," said Cecily timidly.
"Oh, it's no inconvenience to speak of. Come in. Well, yez HAVE
got some snow on yez. Let me get a broom. You boys stomp your feet
well and shake your coats. You girls give me your things and I'll hang
them up. Guess yez are most froze. Well, sit up to the stove and git
Peg bustled away to gather up a dubious assortment of chairs, with
backs and rungs missing, and in a few minutes we were in a circle
around her roaring stove, getting dried and thawed out. In our wildest
flights of fancy we had never pictured ourselves as guests at the
witch's hearth-stone. Yet here we were; and the witch herself was
actually brewing a jorum of ginger tea for Cecily, who continued to
shiver long after the rest of us were roasted to the marrow. Poor Sis
drank that scalding draught, being in too great awe of Peg to do aught
"That'll soon fix your shivers," said our hostess kindly. "And now
I'll get yez all some tea."
"Oh, please don't trouble," said the Story Girl hastily.
"'Tain't any trouble," said Peg briskly; then, with one of the
sudden changes to fierceness which made her such a terrifying
personage, "Do yez think my vittels ain't clean?"
"Oh, no, no," cried Felicity quickly, before the Story Girl could
speak, "none of us would ever think THAT. Sara only meant she didn't
want you to go to any bother on our account."
"It ain't any bother," said Peg, mollified. "I'm spry as a cricket
this winter, though I have the realagy sometimes. Many a good bite
I've had in your ma's kitchen. I owe yez a meal."
No more protests were made. We sat in awed silence, gazing with
timid curiosity about the room, the stained, plastered walls of which
were well-nigh covered with a motley assortment of pictures, chromos,
and advertisements, pasted on without much regard for order or
We had heard much of Peg's pets and now we saw them. Six cats
occupied various cosy corners; one of them, the black goblin which had
so terrified us in the summer, blinked satirically at us from the
centre of Peg's bed. Another, a dilapidated, striped beastie, with
both ears and one eye gone, glared at us from the sofa in the corner.
A dog, with only three legs, lay behind the stove; a crow sat on a
roost above our heads, in company with a matronly old hen; and on the
clock shelf were a stuffed monkey and a grinning skull. We had heard
that a sailor had given Peg the monkey. But where had she got the
skull? And whose was it? I could not help puzzling over these
Presently tea was ready and we gathered around the festal board--a
board literally as well as figuratively, for Peg's table was the work
of her own unskilled hands. The less said about the viands of that
meal, and the dishes they were served in, the better. But we ate
them--bless you, yes!--as we would have eaten any witch's banquet set
before us. Peg might or might not be a witch--common sense said not;
but we knew she was quite capable of turning every one of us out of
doors in one of her sudden fierce fits if we offended her; and we had
no mind to trust ourselves again to that wild forest where we had
fought a losing fight with the demon forces of night and storm.
But it was not an agreeable meal in more ways than one. Peg was
not at all careful of anybody's feelings. She hurt Felix's cruelly as
she passed him his cup of tea.
"You've gone too much to flesh, boy. So the magic seed didn't
How in the world had Peg found out about that magic seed? Felix
looked uncommonly foolish.
"If you'd come to me in the first place I'd soon have told you how
to get thin," said Peg, nodding wisely.
"Won't you tell me now?" asked Felix eagerly, his desire to melt
his too solid flesh overcoming his dread and shame.
"No, I don't like being second fiddle," answered Peg with a crafty
smile. "Sara, you're too scrawny and pale--not much like your ma. I
knew her well. She was counted a beauty, but she made no great things
of a match. Your father had some money but he was a tramp like meself.
Where is he now?"
"In Rome," said the Story Girl rather shortly.
"People thought your ma was crazy when she took him. But she'd a
right to please herself. Folks is too ready to call other folks crazy.
There's people who say I'M not in my right mind. Did yez ever"--Peg
fixed Felicity with a piercing glance--"hear anything so ridiculous?"
"Never," said Felicity, white to the lips.
"I wish everybody was as sane as I am," said Peg scornfully. Then
she looked poor Felicity over critically. "You're good-looking but
proud. And your complexion won't wear. It'll be like your ma's
yet--too much red in it."
"Well, that's better than being the colour of mud," muttered Peter,
who wasn't going to hear his lady traduced, even by a witch. All the
thanks he got was a furious look from Felicity, but Peg had not heard
him and now she turned her attention to Cecily.
"You look delicate. I daresay you'll never live to grow up."
Cecily's lip trembled and Dan's face turned crimson.
"Shut up," he said to Peg. "You've no business to say such things
I think my jaw dropped. I know Peter's and Felix's did. Felicity
broke in wildly.
"Oh, don't mind him, Miss Bowen. He's got SUCH a temper--that's
just the way he talks to us all at home. PLEASE excuse him."
"Bless you, I don't mind him," said Peg, from whom the unexpected
seemed to be the thing to expect. "I like a lad of spurrit. And so
your father run away, did he, Peter? He used to be a beau of mine--he
seen me home three times from singing school when we was young. Some
folks said he did it for a dare. There's such a lot of jealousy in the
world, ain't there? Do you know where he is now?"
"No," said Peter.
"Well, he's coming home before long," said Peg mysteriously.
"Who told you that?" cried Peter in amazement.
"Better not ask," responded Peg, looking up at the skull.
If she meant to make the flesh creep on our bones she succeeded.
But now, much to our relief, the meal was over and Peg invited us to
draw our chairs up to the stove again.
"Make yourselves at home," she said, producing her pipe from her
pocket. "I ain't one of the kind who thinks their houses too good to
live in. Guess I won't bother washing the dishes. They'll do yez for
breakfast if yez don't forget your places. I s'pose none of yez
"No," said Felicity, rather primly.
"Then yez don't know what's good for yez," retorted Peg, rather
grumpily. But a few whiffs of her pipe placated her and, observing
Cecily sigh, she asked her kindly what was the matter.
"I'm thinking how worried they'll be at home about us," explained
"Bless you, dearie, don't be worrying over that. I'll send them
word that yez are all snug and safe here."
"But how can you?" cried amazed Cecily.
"Better not ask," said Peg again, with another glance at the skull.
An uncomfortable silence followed, finally broken by Peg, who
introduced her pets to us and told how she had come by them. The black
cat was her favourite.
"That cat knows more than I do, if yez'll believe it," she said
proudly. "I've got a rat too, but he's a bit shy when strangers is
round. Your cat got all right again that time, didn't he?"
"Yes," said the Story Girl.
"Thought he would," said Peg, nodding sagely. "I seen to that.
Now, don't yez all be staring at the hole in my dress."
"We weren't," was our chorus of protest.
"Looked as if yez were. I tore that yesterday but I didn't mend
it. I was brought up to believe that a hole was an accident but a
patch was a disgrace. And so your Aunt Olivia is going to be married
This was news to us. We felt and looked dazed.
"I never heard anything of it," said the Story Girl.
"Oh, it's true enough. She's a great fool. I've no faith in
husbands. But one good thing is she ain't going to marry that Henry
Jacobs of Markdale. He wants her bad enough. Just like his
presumption,--thinking himself good enough for a King. His father is
the worst man alive. He chased me off his place with his dog once.
But I'll get even with him yet."
Peg looked very savage, and visions of burned barns floated through
"He'll be punished in hell, you know," said Peter timidly.
"But I won't be there to see that," rejoined Peg. "Some folks say
I'll go there because I don't go to church oftener. But I don't
"Why don't you go?" asked Peter, with a temerity that bordered on
"Well, I've got so sunburned I'm afraid folks might take me for an
Injun," explained Peg, quite seriously. "Besides, your minister makes
such awful long prayers. Why does he do it?"
"I suppose he finds it easier to talk to God than to people,"
suggested Peter reflectively.
"Well, anyway, I belong to the round church," said Peg comfortably,
"and so the devil can't catch ME at the corners. I haven't been to
Carlisle church for over three years. I thought I'd a-died laughing
the last time I was there. Old Elder Marr took up the collection that
day. He'd on a pair of new boots and they squeaked all the way up and
down the aisles. And every time the boots squeaked the elder made a
face, like he had toothache. It was awful funny. How's your
missionary quilt coming on, Cecily?"
Was there anything Peg didn't know?
"Very well," said Cecily.
"You can put my name on it, if you want to."
"Oh, thank you. Which section--the five-cent one or the ten-cent
one?" asked Cecily timidly.
"The ten-cent one, of course. The best is none too good for me.
I'll give you the ten cents another time. I'm short of change just
now--not being as rich as Queen Victory. There's her picture up
there--the one with the blue sash and diamint crown and the lace
curting on her head. Can any of yez tell me this--is Queen Victory a
"Oh, yes, but her husband is dead," answered the Story Girl.
"Well, I s'pose they couldn't have called her an old maid, seeing
she was a queen, even if she'd never got married. Sometimes I sez to
myself, 'Peg, would you like to be Queen Victory?' But I never know
what to answer. In summer, when I can roam anywhere in the woods and
the sunshine--I wouldn't be Queen Victory for anything. But when it's
winter and cold and I can't git nowheres--I feel as if I wouldn't mind
changing places with her."
Peg put her pipe back in her mouth and began to smoke fiercely.
The candle wick burned long, and was topped by a little cap of fiery
red that seemed to wink at us like an impish gnome. The most grotesque
shadow of Peg flickered over the wall behind her. The one-eyed cat
remitted his grim watch and went to sleep. Outside the wind screamed
like a ravening beast at the window. Suddenly Peg removed her pipe
from her mouth, bent forward, gripped my wrist with her sinewy fingers
until I almost cried out with pain, and gazed straight into my face. I
felt horribly frightened of her. She seemed an entirely different
creature. A wild light was in her eyes, a furtive, animal-like
expression was on her face. When she spoke it was in a different voice
and in different language.
"Do you hear the wind?" she asked in a thrilling whisper. "What IS
the wind? What IS the wind?"
"I--I--don't know," I stammered.
"No more do I," said Peg, "and nobody knows. Nobody knows what the
wind is. I wish I could find out. I mightn't be so afraid of the wind
if I knew what it was. I am afraid of it. When the blasts come like
that I want to crouch down and hide me. But I can tell you one thing
about the wind--it's the only free thing in the
world--THE--ONLY--FREE--THING. Everything else is subject to some law,
but the wind is FREE. It bloweth where it listeth and no man can tame
it. It's free--that's why I love it, though I'm afraid of it. It's a
grand thing to be free--free free--free!"
Peg's voice rose almost to a shriek. We were dreadfully
frightened, for we knew there were times when she was quite crazy and
we feared one of her "spells" was coming on her. But with a swift
movement she turned the man's coat she wore up over her shoulders and
head like a hood, completely hiding her face. Then she crouched
forward, elbows on knees, and relapsed into silence. None of us dared
speak or move. We sat thus for half an hour. Then Peg jumped up and
said briskly in her usual tone,
"Well, I guess yez are all sleepy and ready for bed. You girls can
sleep in my bed over there, and I'll take the sofy. Yez can put the
cat off if yez like, though he won't hurt yez. You boys can go
downstairs. There's a big pile of straw there that'll do yez for a
bed, if yez put your coats on. I'll light yez down, but I ain't going
to leave yez a light for fear yez'd set fire to the place."
Saying good-night to the girls, who looked as if they thought their
last hour was come, we went to the lower room. It was quite empty,
save for a pile of fire wood and another of clean straw. Casting a
stealthy glance around, ere Peg withdrew the light, I was relieved to
see that there were no skulls in sight. We four boys snuggled down in
the straw. We did not expect to sleep, but we were very tired and
before we knew it our eyes were shut, to open no more till morning.
The poor girls were not so fortunate. They always averred they never
closed an eye. Four things prevented them from sleeping. In the first
place Peg snored loudly; in the second place the fitful gleams of
firelight kept flickering over the skull for half the night and making
gruesome effects on it; in the third place Peg's pillows and bedclothes
smelled rankly of tobacco smoke; and in the fourth place they were
afraid the rat Peg had spoken of might come out to make their
acquaintance. Indeed, they were sure they heard him skirmishing about
When we wakened in the morning the storm was over and a young
morning was looking through rosy eyelids across a white world. The
little clearing around Peg's cabin was heaped with dazzling drifts, and
we boys fell to and shovelled out a road to her well. She gave us
breakfast--stiff oatmeal porridge without milk, and a boiled egg
apiece. Cecily could NOT eat her porridge; she declared she had such a
bad cold that she had no appetite; a cold she certainly had; the rest
of us choked our messes down and after we had done so Peg asked us if
we had noticed a soapy taste.
"The soap fell into the porridge while I was making it," she said.
"But,"--smacking her lips,--"I'm going to make yez an Irish stew for
dinner. It'll be fine."
An Irish stew concocted by Peg! No wonder Dan said hastily,
"You are very kind but we'll have to go right home."
"Yez can't walk," said Peg.
"Oh, yes, we can. The drifts are so hard they'll carry, and the
snow will be pretty well blown off the middle of the fields. It's only
three-quarters of a mile. We boys will go home and get a pung and come
back for you girls."
But the girls wouldn't listen to this. They must go with us, even
"Seems to me yez weren't in such a hurry to leave last night,"
observed Peg sarcastically.
"Oh, it's only because they'll be so anxious about us at home, and
it's Sunday and we don't want to miss Sunday School," explained
"Well, I hope your Sunday School will do yez good," said Peg,
rather grumpily. But she relented again at the last and gave Cecily a
"Whatever you wish on that will come true," she said. "But you
only have the one wish, so don't waste it."
"We're so much obliged to you for all your trouble," said the Story
"Never mind the trouble. The expense is the thing," retorted Peg
"Oh!" Felicity hesitated. "If you would let us pay you--give you
"No, thank yez," responded Peg loftily. "There is people who take
money for their hospitality, I've heerd, but I'm thankful to say I
don't associate with that class. Yez are welcome to all yez have had
here, if yez ARE in a big hurry to get away."
She shut the door behind us with something of a slam, and her black
cat followed us so far, with stealthy, furtive footsteps, that we were
frightened of it. Eventually it turned back; then, and not till then,
did we feel free to discuss our adventure.
"Well, I'm thankful we're out of THAT," said Felicity, drawing a
long breath. "Hasn't it just been an awful experience?"
"We might all have been found frozen stark and stiff this morning,"
remarked the Story Girl with apparent relish.
"I tell you, it was a lucky thing we got to Peg Bowen's," said Dan.
"Miss Marwood says there is no such thing as luck," protested
Cecily. "We ought to say it was Providence instead."
"Well, Peg and Providence don't seem to go together very well,
somehow," retorted Dan. "If Peg is a witch it must be the Other One
she's in co. with."
"Dan, it's getting to be simply scandalous the way you talk," said
Felicity. "I just wish ma could hear you."
"Is soap in porridge any worse than tooth-powder in rusks, lovely
creature?" asked Dan.
"Dan, Dan," admonished Cecily, between her coughs, "remember it's
"It seems hard to remember that," said Peter. "It doesn't seem a
mite like Sunday and it seems awful long since yesterday."
"Cecily, you've got a dreadful cold," said the Story Girl
"In spite of Peg's ginger tea," added Felix.
"Oh, that ginger tea was AWFUL," exclaimed poor Cecily. "I thought
I'd never get it down--it was so hot with ginger--and there was so much
of it! But I was so frightened of offending Peg I'd have tried to
drink it all if there had been a bucketful. Oh, yes, it's very easy
for you all to laugh! You didn't have to drink it."
"We had to eat two meals, though," said Felicity with a shiver.
"And I don't know when those dishes of hers were washed. I just shut
my eyes and took gulps."
"Did you notice the soapy taste in the porridge?" asked the Story
"Oh, there were so many queer tastes about it I didn't notice one
more than another," answered Felicity wearily.
"What bothers me," remarked Peter absently, "is that skull. Do you
suppose Peg really finds things out by it?"
"Nonsense! How could she?" scoffed Felix, bold as a lion in
"She didn't SAY she did, you know," I said cautiously.
"Well, we'll know in time if the things she said were going to
happen do," mused Peter.
"Do you suppose your father is really coming home?" queried
"I hope not," answered Peter decidedly.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Felicity severely.
"No, I oughtn't. Father got drunk all the time he was home, and
wouldn't work and was bad to mother," said Peter defiantly. "She had
to support him as well as herself and me. I don't want to see any
father coming home, and you'd better believe it. Of course, if he was
the right sort of a father it'd be different."
"What I would like to know is if Aunt Olivia is going to be
married," said the Story Girl absently. "I can hardly believe it. But
now that I think of it--Uncle Roger has been teasing her ever since she
was in Halifax last summer."
"If she does get married you'll have to come and live with us,"
said Cecily delightedly.
Felicity did not betray so much delight and the Story Girl remarked
with a weary little sigh that she hoped Aunt Olivia wouldn't. We all
felt rather weary, somehow. Peg's predictions had been unsettling, and
our nerves had all been more or less strained during our sojourn under
her roof. We were glad when we found ourselves at home.
The folks had not been at all troubled about us, but it was because
they were sure the storm had come up before we would think of leaving
Cousin Mattie's and not because they had received any mysterious
message from Peg's skull. We were relieved at this, but on the whole,
our adventure had not done much towards clearing up the vexed question
of Peg's witchcraft.
CHAPTER IX. EXTRACTS FROM THE
FEBRUARY AND MARCH NUMBERS OF Our Magazine
RESOLUTION HONOUR ROLL
Miss Felicity King.
Mr. Felix King.
Mr. Peter Craig.
Miss Sara Ray.
The editor wishes to make a few remarks about the Resolution Honour
Roll. As will be seen, only one name figures on it. Felicity says she
has thought a beautiful thought every morning before breakfast without
missing one morning, not even the one we were at Peg Bowen's. Some of
our number think it not fair that Felicity should be on the honour roll
(FELICITY, ASIDE: "That's Dan, of course.") when she only made one
resolution and won't tell us what any of the thoughts were. So we have
decided to give honourable mention to everybody who has kept one
resolution perfect. Felix has worked all his arithmetic problems by
himself. He complains that he never got more than a third of them
right and the teacher has marked him away down; but one cannot keep
resolutions without some inconvenience. Peter has never played
tit-tat-x in church or got drunk and says it wasn't as bad as he
expected. (PETER, INDIGNANTLY: "I never said it." CECILY,
SOOTHINGLY: "Now, Peter, Bev only meant that as a joke.") Sara Ray has
never talked any mean gossip, but does not find conversation as
interesting as it used to be. (SARA RAY, WONDERINGLY: "I don't
remember of saying that.")
Felix did not eat any apples until March, but forgot and ate seven
the day we were at Cousin Mattie's. (FELIX: "I only ate five!") He
soon gave up trying to say what he thought always. He got into too
much trouble. We think Felix ought to change to old Grandfather King's
rule. It was, "Hold your tongue when you can, and when you can't tell
the truth." Cecily feels she has not read all the good books she might,
because some she tried to read were very dull and the Pansy books were
so much more interesting. And it is no use trying not to feel bad
because her hair isn't curly and she has marked that resolution out.
The Story Girl came very near to keeping her resolution to have all
the good times possible, but she says she missed two, if not three, she
might have had. Dan refuses to say anything about his resolutions and
so does the editor.
We regret that Miss Cecily King is suffering from a severe cold.
Mr. Alexander Marr of Markdale died very suddenly last week. We
never heard of his death till he was dead.
Miss Cecily King wishes to state that she did not ask the question
about "Holy Moses" and the other word in the January number. Dan put
it in for a mean joke.
The weather has been cold and fine. We have only had one bad
storm. The coasting on Uncle Roger's hill continues good.
Aunt Eliza did not favour us with a visit after all. She took cold
and had to go home. We were sorry that she had a cold but glad that
she had to go home. Cecily said she thought it wicked of us to be
glad. But when we asked her "cross her heart" if she wasn't glad
herself she had to say she was.
Miss Cecily King has got three very distinguished names on her
quilt square. They are the Governor and his wife and a witch's.
The King family had the honour of entertaining the Governor's wife
to tea on February the seventeenth. We are all invited to visit
Government House but some of us think we won't go.
A tragic event occurred last Tuesday. Mrs. James Frewen came to
tea and there was no pie in the house. Felicity has not yet fully
A new boy is coming to school. His name is Cyrus Brisk and his
folks moved up from Markdale. He says he is going to punch Willy
Fraser's head if Willy keeps on thinking he is Miss Cecily King's beau.
(CECILY: "I haven't ANY beau! I don't mean to think of such a
thing for at least eight years yet!")
Miss Alice Reade of Charlottetown Royalty has come to Carlisle to
teach music. She boards at Mr. Peter Armstrong's. The girls are all
going to take music lessons from her. Two descriptions of her will be
found in another column. Felix wrote one, but the girls thought he did
not do her justice, so Cecily wrote another one. She admits she copied
most of the description out of Valeria H. Montague's story Lord
Marmaduke's First, Last, and Only Love; or the Bride of the Castle by
the Sea, but says they fit Miss Reade better than anything she could
Always keep the kitchen tidy and then you needn't mind if company
ANXIOUS INQUIRER: We don't know anything that will take the stain
out of a silk dress when a soft-boiled egg is dropped on it. Better
not wear your silk dress so often, especially when boiling eggs.
Ginger tea is good for colds.
OLD HOUSEKEEPER: Yes, when the baking-powder gives out you can use
(FELICITY: "I never wrote that! I don't care, I don't think it's
fair for other people to be putting things in my department!")
Our apples are not keeping well this year. They are rotting; and
besides father says we eat an awful lot of them.
PERSEVERANCE: I will give you the recipe for dumplings you ask
for. But remember it is not everyone who can make dumplings, even from
the recipe. There's a knack in it.
If the soap falls into the porridge do not tell your guests about
it until they have finished eating it because it might take away their
P-r C-g:--Do not criticize people's noses unless you are sure they
can't hear you, and don't criticize your best girl's great-aunt's nose
in any case.
(FELICITY, TOSSING HER HEAD: "Oh, my! I s'pose Dan thought that
was extra smart.")
C-y K-g:--When my most intimate friend walks with another girl and
exchanges lace patterns with her, what ought I to do? Ans. Adopt a
F-y K-g:--It is better not to wear your second best hat to church,
but if your mother says you must it is not for me to question her
(FELICITY: "Dan just copied that word for word out of the Family
Guide, except about the hat part.")
P-r C-g:--Yes, it would be quite proper to say good evening to the
family ghost if you met it.
F-x K-g:--No, it is not polite to sleep with your mouth open.
What's more, it isn't safe. Something might fall into it.
Crocheted watch pockets are all the rage now. If you haven't a
watch they do to carry your pencil in or a piece of gum.
It is stylish to have hair ribbons to match your dress. But it is
hard to match gray drugget. I like scarlet for that.
It is stylish to pin a piece of ribbon on your coat the same colour
as your chum wears in her hair. Mary Martha Cowan saw them doing it in
town and started us doing it here. I always wear Kitty's ribbon and
Kitty wears mine, but the Story Girl thinks it is silly.
AN ACCOUNT OF OUR VISIT TO COUSIN MATTIE'S
We all walked over to Cousin Mattie's last week. They were all
well there and we had a fine dinner. On our way back a snow-storm came
up and we got lost in the woods. We didn't know where we were or
nothing. If we hadn't seen a light I guess we'd all have been frozen
and snowed over, and they would never have found us till spring and
that would be very sad. But we saw a light and made for it and it was
Peg Bowen's. Some people think she is a witch and it's hard to tell,
but she was real hospitable and took us all in. Her house was very
untidy but it was warm. She has a skull. I mean a loose skull, not
her own. She lets on it tells her things, but Uncle Alec says it
couldn't because it was only an Indian skull that old Dr. Beecham had
and Peg stole it when he died, but Uncle Roger says he wouldn't trust
himself with Peg's skull for anything. She gave us supper. It was a
horrid meal. The Story Girl says I must not tell what I found in the
bread and butter because it would be too disgusting to read in Our
Magazine but it don't matter because we were all there, except Sara
Ray, and know what it was. We stayed all night and us boys slept in
straw. None of us had ever slept on straw before. We got home in the
morning. That is all I can write about our visit to Cousin Mattie's.
MY WORST ADVENTURE
It's my turn to write it so I suppose I must. I guess my worst
adventure was two years ago when a whole lot of us were coasting on
Uncle Rogers hill. Charlie Cowan and Fred Marr had started, but
half-way down their sled got stuck and I run down to shove them off
again. Then I stood there just a moment to watch them with my back to
the top of the hill. While I was standing there Rob Marr started Kitty
and Em Frewen off on his sled. His sled had a wooden tongue in it and
it slanted back over the girls' heads. I was right in the way and they
yelled to me to get out, but just as I heard them it struck me. The
sled took me between the legs and I was histed back over the tongue and
dropped in a heap behind before I knew what had happened to me. I
thought a tornado had struck me. The girls couldn't stop though they
thought I was killed, but Rob came tearing down and helped me up. He
was awful scared but I wasn't killed nor my back wasn't broken but my
nose bled something awful and kept on bleeding for three days. Not all
the time but by spells.
THE STORY OF HOW CARLISLE GOT ITS NAME
This is a true story to. Long ago there was a girl lived in
charlotte town. I dont know her name so I cant right it and maybe it
is just as well for Felicity might think it wasnt romantik like Miss
Jemima Parrs. She was awful pretty and a young englishman who had come
out to make his fortune fell in love with her and they were engaged to
be married the next spring. His name was Mr. Carlisle. In the winter
he started off to hunt cariboo for a spell. Cariboos lived on the
island then. There aint any here now. He got to where it is Carlisle
now. It wasn't anything then only woods and a few indians. He got
awful sick and was sick for ever so long in a indian camp and only an
old micmac squaw to wait on him. Back in town they all thought he was
dead and his girl felt bad for a little while and then got over it and
took up with another beau. The girls say that wasnt romantik but I
think it was sensible but if it had been me that died I'd have felt bad
if she forgot me so soon. But he hadnt died and when he got back to
town he went right to her house and walked in and there she was
standing up to be married to the other fellow. Poor Mr. Carlisle felt
awful. He was sick and week and it went to his head. He just turned
and run and run till he got back to the old micmac's camp and fell in
front of it. But the indians had gone because it was spring and it
didnt matter because he really was dead this time and people come
looking for him from town and found him and buryed him there and called
the place after him. They say the girl was never happy again and that
was hard lines on her but maybe she deserved it.
MISS ALICE READE
Miss Alice Reade is a very pretty girl. She has kind of curly
blackish hair and big gray eyes and a pale face. She is tall and thin
but her figure is pretty fair and she has a nice mouth and a sweet way
of speaking. The girls are crazy about her and talk about her all the
That is what we girls call Miss Reade among ourselves. She is
divinely beautiful. Her magnificent wealth of raven hair flows back in
glistening waves from her sun-kissed brow. (DAN: "If Felix had said
she was sunburned you'd have all jumped on him." (CECILY, COLDLY:
"Sun-kissed doesn't mean sunburned." DAN: "What does it mean then?"
CECILY, EMBARRASSED: "I--I don't know. But Miss Montague says the
Lady Geraldine's brow was sun-kissed and of course an earl's daughter
wouldn't be sunburned. "THE STORY GIRL: "Oh, don't interrupt the
reading like this. It spoils it.") Her eyes are gloriously dark and
deep, like midnight lakes mirroring the stars of heaven. Her features
are like sculptured marble and her mouth is a trembling, curving
Cupid's bow. (PETER, ASIDE: "What kind of a thing is that?") Her
creamy skin is as fair and flawless as the petals of a white lily. Her
voice is like the ripple of a woodland brook and her slender form is
matchless in its symmetry. (DAN: "That's Valeria's way of putting it,
but Uncle Roger says she don't show her feed much." FELICITY: "Dan!
if Uncle Roger is vulgar you needn't be!") Her hands are like a poet's
dreams. She dresses so nicely and looks so stylish in her clothes.
Her favourite colour is blue. Some people think she is stiff and some
say she is stuck-up, but she isn't a bit. It's just that she is
different from them and they don't like it. She is just lovely and we
CHAPTER X. DISAPPEARANCE OF PADDY
As I remember, the spring came late that year in Carlisle. It was
May before the weather began to satisfy the grown-ups. But we children
were more easily pleased, and we thought April a splendid month because
the snow all went early and left gray, firm, frozen ground for our
rambles and games. As the days slipped by they grew more gracious; the
hillsides began to look as if they were thinking of mayflowers; the old
orchard was washed in a bath of tingling sunshine and the sap stirred
in the big trees; by day the sky was veiled with delicate cloud drift,
fine and filmy as woven mist; in the evenings a full, low moon looked
over the valleys, as pallid and holy as some aureoled saint; a sound of
laughter and dream was on the wind and the world grew young with the
mirth of April breezes.
"It's so nice to be alive in the spring," said the Story Girl one
twilight as we swung on the boughs of Uncle Stephen's walk.
"It's nice to be alive any time," said Felicity, complacently.
"But it's nicer in the spring," insisted the Story Girl. "When I'm
dead I think I'll FEEL dead all the rest of the year, but when spring
comes I'm sure I'll feel like getting up and being alive again."
"You do say such queer things," complained Felicity. "You won't be
really dead any time. You'll be in the next world. And I think it's
horrid to talk about people being dead anyhow."
"We've all got to die," said Sara Ray solemnly, but with a certain
relish. It was as if she enjoyed looking forward to something in which
nothing, neither an unsympathetic mother, nor the cruel fate which had
made her a colourless little nonentity, could prevent her from being
the chief performer.
"I sometimes think," said Cecily, rather wearily, "that it isn't so
dreadful to die young as I used to suppose."
She prefaced her remark with a slight cough, as she had been all
too apt to do of late, for the remnants of the cold she had caught the
night we were lost in the storm still clung to her.
"Don't talk such nonsense, Cecily," cried the Story Girl with
unwonted sharpness, a sharpness we all understood. All of us, in our
hearts, though we never spoke of it to each other, thought Cecily was
not as well as she ought to be that spring, and we hated to hear
anything said which seemed in any way to touch or acknowledge the tiny,
faint shadow which now and again showed itself dimly athwart our
"Well, it was you began talking of being dead," said Felicity
angrily. "I don't think it's right to talk of such things. Cecily,
are you sure your feet ain't damp? We ought to go in anyhow--it's too
chilly out here for you."
"You girls had better go," said Dan, "but I ain't going in till old
Isaac Frewen goes. I've no use for him."
"I hate him, too," said Felicity, agreeing with Dan for once in her
life. "He chews tobacco all the time and spits on the floor-- the
"And yet his brother is an elder in the church," said Sara Ray
"I know a story about Isaac Frewen," said the Story Girl. "When he
was young he went by the name of Oatmeal Frewen and he got it this way.
He was noted for doing outlandish things. He lived at Markdale then
and he was a great, overgrown, awkward fellow, six feet tall. He drove
over to Baywater one Saturday to visit his uncle there and came home
the next afternoon, and although it was Sunday he brought a big bag of
oatmeal in the wagon with him. When he came to Carlisle church he saw
that service was going on there, and he concluded to stop and go in.
But he didn't like to leave his oatmeal outside for fear something
would happen to it, because there were always mischievous boys around,
so he hoisted the bag on his back and walked into church with it and
right to the top of the aisle to Grandfather King's pew. Grandfather
King used to say he would never forget it to his dying day. The
minister was preaching and everything was quiet and solemn when he
heard a snicker behind him. Grandfather King turned around with a
terrible frown--for you know in those days it was thought a dreadful
thing to laugh in church--to rebuke the offender; and what did he see
but that great, hulking young Isaac stalking up the aisle, bending a
little forward under the weight of a big bag of oatmeal? Grandfather
King was so amazed he couldn't laugh, but almost everyone else in the
church was laughing, and grandfather said he never blamed them, for no
funnier sight was ever seen. Young Isaac turned into grandfather's pew
and thumped the bag of oatmeal down on the seat with a thud that
cracked it. Then he plumped down beside it, took off his hat, wiped
his face, and settled back to listen to the sermon, just as if it was
all a matter of course. When the service was over he hoisted his bag
up again, marched out of church, and drove home. He could never
understand why it made so much talk; but he was known by the name of
Oatmeal Frewen for years."
Our laughter, as we separated, rang sweetly through the old orchard
and across the far, dim meadows. Felicity and Cecily went into the
house and Sara Ray and the Story Girl went home, but Peter decoyed me
into the granary to ask advice.
"You know Felicity has a birthday next week," he said, "and I want
to write her an ode."
"A--a what?" I gasped.
"An ode," repeated Peter, gravely. "It's poetry, you know. I'll
put it in Our Magazine."
"But you can't write poetry, Peter," I protested.
"I'm going to try," said Peter stoutly. "That is, if you think she
won't be offended at me."
"She ought to feel flattered," I replied.
"You never can tell how she'll take things," said Peter gloomily.
"Of course I ain't going to sign my name, and if she ain't pleased I
won't tell her I wrote it. Don't you let on."
I promised I wouldn't and Peter went off with a light heart. He
said he meant to write two lines every day till he got it done.
Cupid was playing his world-old tricks with others than poor Peter
that spring. Allusion has been made in these chronicles to one, Cyrus
Brisk, and to the fact that our brown-haired, soft-voiced Cecily had
found favour in the eyes of the said Cyrus. Cecily did not regard her
conquest with any pride. On the contrary, it annoyed her terribly to
be teased about Cyrus. She declared she hated both him and his name.
She was as uncivil to him as sweet Cecily could be to anyone, but the
gallant Cyrus was nothing daunted. He laid determined siege to
Cecily's young heart by all the methods known to love-lorn swains. He
placed delicate tributes of spruce gum, molasses taffy, "conversation"
candies and decorated slate pencils on her desk; he persistently
"chose" her in all school games calling for a partner; he entreated to
be allowed to carry her basket from school; he offered to work her sums
for her; and rumour had it that he had made a wild statement to the
effect that he meant to ask if he might see her home some night from
prayer meeting. Cecily was quite frightened that he would; she
confided to me that she would rather die than walk home with him, but
that if he asked her she would be too bashful to say no. So far,
however, Cyrus had not molested her out of school, nor had he as yet
thumped Willy Fraser--who was reported to be very low in his spirits
over the whole affair.
And now Cyrus had written Cecily a letter--a love letter, mark you.
Moreover, he had sent it through the post-office, with a real stamp on
it. Its arrival made a sensation among us. Dan brought it from the
office and, recognizing the handwriting of Cyrus, gave Cecily no peace
until she showed us the letter. It was a very sentimental and rather
ill-spelled epistle in which the inflammable Cyrus reproached her in
heart-rending words for her coldness, and begged her to answer his
letter, saying that if she did he would keep the secret "in violets."
Cyrus probably meant "inviolate" but Cecily thought it was intended
for a poetical touch. He signed himself "your troo lover, Cyrus Brisk"
and added in a postcript that he couldn't eat or sleep for thinking of
"Are you going to answer it?" asked Dan.
"Certainly not," said Cecily with dignity.
"Cyrus Brisk wants to be kicked," growled Felix, who never seemed
to be any particular friend of Willy Fraser's either. "He'd better
learn how to spell before he takes to writing love letters."
"Maybe Cyrus will starve to death if you don't," suggested Sara
"I hope he will," said Cecily cruelly. She was truly vexed over
the letter; and yet, so contradictory a thing is the feminine heart,
even at twelve years old, I think she was a little flattered by it
also. It was her first love letter and she confided to me that it
gives you a very queer feeling to get it. At all events--the letter,
though unanswered, was not torn up. I feel sure Cecily preserved it.
But she walked past Cyrus next morning at school with a frozen
countenance, evincing not the slightest pity for his pangs of
unrequited affection. Cecily winced when Pat caught a mouse, visited a
school chum the day the pigs were killed that she might not hear their
squealing, and would not have stepped on a caterpillar for anything;
yet she did not care at all how much she made the brisk Cyrus suffer.
Then, suddenly, all our spring gladness and Maytime hopes were
blighted as by a killing frost. Sorrow and anxiety pervaded our days
and embittered our dreams by night. Grim tragedy held sway in our
lives for the next fortnight.
Paddy disappeared. One night he lapped his new milk as usual at
Uncle Roger's dairy door and then sat blandly on the flat stone before
it, giving the world assurance of a cat, sleek sides glistening, plumy
tail gracefully folded around his paws, brilliant eyes watching the
stir and flicker of bare willow boughs in the twilight air above him.
That was the last seen of him. In the morning he was not.
At first we were not seriously alarmed. Paddy was no roving
Thomas, but occasionally he vanished for a day or so. But when two
days passed without his return we became anxious, the third day worried
us greatly, and the fourth found us distracted.
"Something has happened to Pat," the Story Girl declared miserably.
"He never stayed away from home more than two days in his life."
"What could have happened to him?" asked Felix.
"He's been poisoned--or a dog has killed him," answered the Story
Girl in tragic tones.
Cecily began to cry at this; but tears were of no avail. Neither
was anything else, apparently. We searched every nook and cranny of
barns and out-buildings and woods on both the King farms; we inquired
far and wide; we roved over Carlisle meadows calling Paddy's name,
until Aunt Janet grew exasperated and declared we must stop making such
exhibitions of ourselves. But we found and heard no trace of our lost
pet. The Story Girl moped and refused to be comforted; Cecily declared
she could not sleep at night for thinking of poor Paddy dying miserably
in some corner to which he had dragged his failing body, or lying
somewhere mangled and torn by a dog. We hated every dog we saw on the
ground that he might be the guilty one.
"It's the suspense that's so hard," sobbed the Story Girl. "If I
just knew what had happened to him it wouldn't be QUITE so hard. But I
don't know whether he's dead or alive. He may be living and suffering,
and every night I dream that he has come home and when I wake up and
find it's only a dream it just breaks my heart."
"It's ever so much worse than when he was so sick last fall," said
Cecily drearily. "Then we knew that everything was done for him that
could be done."
We could not appeal to Peg Bowen this time. In our desperation we
would have done it, but Peg was far away. With the first breath of
spring she was up and off, answering to the lure of the long road. She
had not been seen in her accustomed haunts for many a day. Her pets
were gaining their own living in the woods and her house was locked up.
CHAPTER XI. THE WITCH'S WISHBONE
When a fortnight had elapsed we gave up all hope.
"Pat is dead," said the Story Girl hopelessly, as we returned one
evening from a bootless quest to Andrew Cowan's where a strange gray
cat had been reported--a cat which turned out to be a yellowish brown
nondescript, with no tail to speak of.
"I'm afraid so," I acknowledged at last.
"If only Peg Bowen had been at home she could have found him for
us," asserted Peter. "Her skull would have told her where he was."
"I wonder if the wishbone she gave me would have done any good,"
cried Cecily suddenly. "I'd forgotten all about it. Oh, do you
suppose it's too late yet?"
"There's nothing in a wishbone," said Dan impatiently.
"You can't be sure. She TOLD me I'd get the wish I made on it.
I'm going to try whenever I get home."
"It can't do any harm, anyhow," said Peter, "but I'm afraid you've
left it too late. If Pat is dead even a witch's wishbone can't bring
him back to life."
"I'll never forgive myself for not thinking about it before,"
As soon as we got home she flew to the little box upstairs where
she kept her treasures, and brought therefrom the dry and brittle
"Peg told me how it must be done. I'm to hold the wishbone with
both hands, like this, and walk backward, repeating the wish nine
times. And when I've finished the ninth time I'm to turn around nine
times, from right to left, and then the wish will come true right
"Do you expect to see Pat when you finish turning?" said Dan
None of us had any faith in the incantation except Peter, and, by
infection, Cecily. You never could tell what might happen. Cecily
took the wishbone in her trembling little hands and began her backward
pacing, repeating solemnly, "I wish that we may find Paddy alive, or
else his body, so that we can bury him decently." By the time Cecily
had repeated this nine times we were all slightly infected with the
desperate hope that something might come of it; and when she had made
her nine gyrations we looked eagerly down the sunset lane, half
expecting to see our lost pet. But we saw only the Awkward Man turning
in at the gate. This was almost as surprising as the sight of Pat
himself would have been; but there was no sign of Pat and hope
flickered out in every breast but Peter's.
"You've got to give the spell time to work," he expostulated. "If
Pat was miles away when it was wished it wouldn't be reasonable to
expect to see him right off."
But we of little faith had already lost that little, and it was a
very disconsolate group which the Awkward Man presently joined.
He was smiling--his rare, beautiful smile which only children ever
saw--and he lifted his hat to the girls with no trace of the shyness
and awkwardness for which he was notorious.
"Good evening," he said. "Have you little people lost a cat
We stared. Peter said "I knew it!" in a triumphant pig's whisper.
The Story Girl started eagerly forward.
"Oh, Mr. Dale, can you tell us anything of Paddy?" she cried.
"A silver gray cat with black points and very fine marking?"
"Well, doesn't that beat the Dutch!" muttered Dan.
But we were all crowding about the Awkward Man, demanding where and
when he had found Paddy.
"You'd better come over to my place and make sure that it really is
your cat," suggested the Awkward Man, "and I'll tell you all about
finding him on the way. I must warn you that he is pretty thin--but I
think he'll pull through."
We obtained permission to go without much difficulty, although the
spring evening was wearing late, for Aunt Janet said she supposed none
of us would sleep a wink that night if we didn't. A joyful procession
followed the Awkward Man and the Story Girl across the gray,
star-litten meadows to his home and through his pine-guarded gate.
"You know that old barn of mine back in the woods?" said the
Awkward Man. "I go to it only about once in a blue moon. There was an
old barrel there, upside down, one side resting on a block of wood.
This morning I went to the barn to see about having some hay hauled
home, and I had occasion to move the barrel. I noticed that it seemed
to have been moved slightly since my last visit, and it was now resting
wholly on the floor. I lifted it up--and there was a cat lying on the
floor under it. I had heard you had lost yours and I took it this was
your pet. I was afraid he was dead at first. He was lying there with
his eyes closed; but when I bent over him he opened them and gave a
pitiful little mew; or rather his mouth made the motion of a mew, for
he was too weak to utter a sound."
"Oh, poor, poor Paddy," said tender-hearted Cecily tearfully.
"He couldn't stand, so I carried him home and gave him just a
little milk. Fortunately he was able to lap it. I gave him a little
more at intervals all day, and when I left he was able to crawl around.
I think he'll be all right, but you'll have to be careful how you feed
him for a few days. Don't let your hearts run away with your judgment
and kill him with kindness."
"Do you suppose any one put him under that barrel?" asked the Story
"No. The barn was locked. Nothing but a cat could get in. I
suppose he went under the barrel, perhaps in pursuit of a mouse, and
somehow knocked it off the block and so imprisoned himself."
Paddy was sitting before the fire in the Awkward Man's clean, bare
kitchen. Thin! Why, he was literally skin and bone, and his fur was
dull and lustreless. It almost broke our hearts to see our beautiful
Paddy brought so low.
"Oh, how he must have suffered!" moaned Cecily.
"He'll be as prosperous as ever in a week or two," said the Awkward
The Story Girl gathered Paddy up in her arms. Most mellifluously
did he purr as we crowded around to stroke him; with friendly joy he
licked our hands with his little red tongue; poor Paddy was a thankful
cat; he was no longer lost, starving, imprisoned, helpless; he was with
his comrades once more and he was going home--home to his old familiar
haunts of orchard and dairy and granary, to his daily rations of new
milk and cream, to the cosy corner of his own fireside. We trooped
home joyfully, the Story Girl in our midst carrying Paddy hugged
against her shoulder. Never did April stars look down on a happier
band of travellers on the golden road. There was a little gray wind
out in the meadows that night, and it danced along beside us on
viewless, fairy feet, and sang a delicate song of the lovely, waiting
years, while the night laid her beautiful hands of blessing over the
"You see what Peg's wishbone did," said Peter triumphantly.
"Now, look here, Peter, don't talk nonsense," expostulated Dan.
"The Awkward Man found Paddy this morning and had started to bring us
word before Cecily ever thought of the wishbone. Do you mean to say
you believe he wouldn't have come walking up our lane just when he did
if she had never thought of it?"
"I mean to say that I wouldn't mind if I had several wishbones of
the same kind," retorted Peter stubbornly.
"Of course I don't think the wishbone had really anything to do
with our getting Paddy back, but I'm glad I tried it, for all that,"
remarked Cecily in a tone of satisfaction.
"Well, anyhow, we've got Pat and that's the main thing," said
"And I hope it will be a lesson to him to stay home after this,"
"They say the barrens are full of mayflowers," said the Story Girl.
"Let us have a mayflower picnic tomorrow to celebrate Paddy's safe
CHAPTER XII. FLOWERS O' MAY
Accordingly we went a-maying, following the lure of dancing winds
to a certain westward sloping hill lying under the spirit-like blue of
spring skies, feathered over with lisping young pines and firs, which
cupped little hollows and corners where the sunshine got in and never
got out again, but stayed there and grew mellow, coaxing dear things to
bloom long before they would dream of waking up elsewhere.
'Twas there we found our mayflowers, after faithful seeking.
Mayflowers, you must know, never flaunt themselves; they must be
sought as becomes them, and then they will yield up their treasures to
the seeker--clusters of star-white and dawn-pink that have in them the
very soul of all the springs that ever were, re- incarnated in
something it seems gross to call perfume, so exquisite and spiritual is
We wandered gaily over the hill, calling to each other with
laughter and jest, getting parted and delightfully lost in that little
pathless wilderness, and finding each other unexpectedly in nooks and
dips and sunny silences, where the wind purred and gentled and went
softly. When the sun began to hang low, sending great fan-like
streamers of radiance up to the zenith, we foregathered in a tiny,
sequestered valley, full of young green fern, lying in the shadow of a
wooded hill. In it was a shallow pool--a glimmering green sheet of
water on whose banks nymphs might dance as blithely as ever they did on
Argive hill or in Cretan dale. There we sat and stripped the faded
leaves and stems from our spoil, making up the blossoms into bouquets
to fill our baskets with sweetness. The Story Girl twisted a spray of
divinest pink in her brown curls, and told us an old legend of a
beautiful Indian maiden who died of a broken heart when the first snows
of winter were falling, because she believed her long-absent lover was
false. But he came back in the spring time from his long captivity;
and when he heard that she was dead he sought her grave to mourn her,
and lo, under the dead leaves of the old year he found sweet sprays of
a blossom never seen before, and knew that it was a message of love and
remembrance from his dark-eyed sweet-heart.
"Except in stories Indian girls are called squaws," remarked
practical Dan, tying his mayflowers together in one huge, solid,
cabbage-like bunch. Not for Dan the bother of filling his basket with
the loose sprays, mingled with feathery elephant's-ears and trails of
creeping spruce, as the rest of us, following the Story Girl's example,
did. Nor would he admit that ours looked any better than his.
"I like things of one kind together. I don't like them mixed," he
"You have no taste," said Felicity.
"Except in my mouth, best beloved," responded Dan.
"You do think you are so smart," retorted Felicity, flushing with
"Don't quarrel this lovely day," implored Cecily.
"Nobody's quarrelling, Sis. I ain't a bit mad. It's Felicity.
What on earth is that at the bottom of your basket, Cecily?"
"It's a History of the Reformation in France," confessed poor
Cecily, "by a man named D-a-u-b-i-g-n-y. I can't pronounce it. I
heard Mr. Marwood saying it was a book everyone ought to read, so I
began it last Sunday. I brought it along today to read when I got
tired picking flowers. I'd ever so much rather have brought Ester
Reid. There's so much in the history I can't understand, and it is so
dreadful to read of people being burned to death. But I felt I OUGHT
to read it."
"Do you really think your mind has improved any?" asked Sara Ray
seriously, wreathing the handle of her basket with creeping spruce.
"No, I'm afraid it hasn't one bit," answered Cecily sadly. "I feel
that I haven't succeeded very well in keeping my resolutions."
"I've kept mine," said Felicity complacently.
"It's easy to keep just one," retorted Cecily, rather resentfully.
"It's not so easy to think beautiful thoughts," answered Felicity.
"It's the easiest thing in the world," said the Story Girl,
tiptoeing to the edge of the pool to peep at her own arch reflection,
as some nymph left over from the golden age might do. "Beautiful
thoughts just crowd into your mind at times."
"Oh, yes, AT TIMES. But that's different from thinking one
REGULARLY at a given hour. And mother is always calling up the stairs
for me to hurry up and get dressed, and it's VERY hard sometimes."
"That's so," conceded the Story Girl. "There ARE times when I
can't think anything but gray thoughts. Then, other days, I think pink
and blue and gold and purple and rainbow thoughts all the time."
"The idea! As if thoughts were coloured," giggled Felicity.
"Oh, they are!" cried the Story Girl. "Why, I can always SEE the
colour of any thought I think. Can't you?"
"I never heard of such a thing," declared Felicity, "and I don't
believe it. I believe you are just making that up."
"Indeed I'm not. Why, I always supposed everyone thought in
colours. It must be very tiresome if you don't."
"When you think of me what colour is it?" asked Peter curiously.
"Yellow," answered the Story Girl promptly. "And Cecily is a sweet
pink, like those mayflowers, and Sara Ray is very pale blue, and Dan is
red and Felix is yellow, like Peter, and Bev is striped."
"What colour am I?" asked Felicity, amid the laughter at my
"You're--you're like a rainbow," answered the Story Girl rather
reluctantly. She had to be honest, but she would rather not have
complimented Felicity. "And you needn't laugh at Bev. His stripes are
beautiful. It isn't HE that is striped. It's just the THOUGHT of him.
Peg Bowen is a queer sort of yellowish green and the Awkward Man is
lilac. Aunt Olivia is pansy-purple mixed with gold, and Uncle Roger is
"I never heard such nonsense," declared Felicity. The rest of us
were rather inclined to agree with her for once. We thought the Story
Girl was making fun of us. But I believe she really had a strange gift
of thinking in colours. In later years, when we were grown up, she
told me of it again. She said that everything had colour in her
thought; the months of the year ran through all the tints of the
spectrum, the days of the week were arrayed as Solomon in his glory,
morning was golden, noon orange, evening crystal blue, and night
violet. Every idea came to her mind robed in its own especial hue.
Perhaps that was why her voice and words had such a charm, conveying
to the listeners' perception such fine shadings of meaning and tint and
"Well, let's go and have something to eat," suggested Dan. "What
colour is eating, Sara?"
"Golden brown, just the colour of a molasses cooky," laughed the
We sat on the ferny bank of the pool and ate of the generous basket
Aunt Janet had provided, with appetites sharpened by the keen spring
air and our wilderness rovings. Felicity had made some very nice
sandwiches of ham which we all appreciated except Dan, who declared he
didn't like things minced up and dug out of the basket a chunk of
boiled pork which he proceeded to saw up with a jack-knife and devour
"I told ma to put this in for me. There's some CHEW to it," he
"You are not a bit refined," commented Felicity.
"Not a morsel, my love," grinned Dan.
"You make me think of a story I heard Uncle Roger telling about
Cousin Annetta King," said the Story Girl. "Great-uncle Jeremiah King
used to live where Uncle Roger lives now, when Grandfather King was
alive and Uncle Roger was a boy. In those days it was thought rather
coarse for a young lady to have too hearty an appetite, and she was
more admired if she was delicate about what she ate. Cousin Annetta
set out to be very refined indeed. She pretended to have no appetite
at all. One afternoon she was invited to tea at Grandfather King's
when they had some special company--people from Charlottetown. Cousin
Annetta said she could hardly eat anything. 'You know, Uncle Abraham,'
she said, in a very affected, fine-young-lady voice, 'I really hardly
eat enough to keep a bird alive. Mother says she wonders how I
continue to exist.' And she picked and pecked until Grandfather King
declared he would like to throw something at her. After tea Cousin
Annetta went home, and just about dark Grandfather King went over to
Uncle Jeremiah's on an errand. As he passed the open, lighted pantry
window he happened to glance in, and what do you think he saw? Delicate
Cousin Annetta standing at the dresser, with a big loaf of bread beside
her and a big platterful of cold, boiled pork in front of her; and
Annetta was hacking off great chunks, like Dan there, and gobbling them
down as if she was starving. Grandfather King couldn't resist the
temptation. He stepped up to the window and said, 'I'm glad your
appetite has come back to you, Annetta. Your mother needn't worry
about your continuing to exist as long as you can tuck away fat, salt
pork in that fashion.'
"Cousin Annetta never forgave him, but she never pretended to be
"The Jews don't believe in eating pork," said Peter.
"I'm glad I'm not a Jew and I guess Cousin Annetta was too," said
"I like bacon, but I can never look at a pig without wondering if
they were ever intended to be eaten," remarked Cecily naively.
When we finished our lunch the barrens were already wrapping
themselves in a dim, blue dusk and falling upon rest in dell and
dingle. But out in the open there was still much light of a fine
emerald-golden sort and the robins whistled us home in it. "Horns of
Elfland" never sounded more sweetly around hoary castle and ruined fane
than those vesper calls of the robins from the twilight spruce woods
and across green pastures lying under the pale radiance of a young
When we reached home we found that Miss Reade had been up to the
hill farm on an errand and was just leaving. The Story Girl went for a
walk with her and came back with an important expression on her face.
"You look as if you had a story to tell," said Felix.
"One is growing. It isn't a whole story yet," answered the Story
"What is it?" asked Cecily.
"I can't tell you till it's fully grown," said the Story Girl.
"But I'll tell you a pretty little story the Awkward Man told us--
told me--tonight. He was walking in his garden as we went by, looking
at his tulip beds. His tulips are up ever so much higher than ours,
and I asked him how he managed to coax them along so early. And he
said HE didn't do it--it was all the work of the pixies who lived in
the woods across the brook. There were more pixy babies than usual
this spring, and the mothers were in a hurry for the cradles. The
tulips are the pixy babies' cradles, it seems. The mother pixies come
out of the woods at twilight and rock their tiny little brown babies to
sleep in the tulip cups. That is the reason why tulip blooms last so
much longer than other blossoms. The pixy babies must have a cradle
until they are grown up. They grow very fast, you see, and the Awkward
Man says on a spring evening, when the tulips are out, you can hear the
sweetest, softest, clearest, fairy music in his garden, and it is the
pixy folk singing as they rock the pixy babies to sleep."
"Then the Awkward Man says what isn't true," said Felicity
CHAPTER XIII. A SURPRISING
"Nothing exciting has happened for ever so long," said the Story
Girl discontentedly, one late May evening, as we lingered under the
wonderful white bloom of the cherry trees. There was a long row of
them in the orchard, with a Lombardy poplar at either end, and a hedge
of lilacs behind. When the wind blew over them all the spicy breezes
of Ceylon's isle were never sweeter.
It was a time of wonder and marvel, of the soft touch of silver
rain on greening fields, of the incredible delicacy of young leaves, of
blossom in field and garden and wood. The whole world bloomed in a
flush and tremor of maiden loveliness, instinct with all the evasive,
fleeting charm of spring and girlhood and young morning. We felt and
enjoyed it all without understanding or analyzing it. It was enough to
be glad and young with spring on the golden road.
"I don't like excitement very much," said Cecily. "It makes one so
tired. I'm sure it was exciting enough when Paddy was missing, but we
didn't find that very pleasant."
"No, but it was interesting," returned the Story Girl thoughtfully.
"After all, I believe I'd rather be miserable than dull."
"I wouldn't then," said Felicity decidedly. "And you need never be
dull when you have work to do. 'Satan finds some mischief still for
idle hands to do!'"
"Well, mischief is interesting," laughed the Story Girl. "And I
thought you didn't think it lady-like to speak of that person,
"It's all right if you call him by his polite name," said Felicity
"Why does the Lombardy poplar hold its branches straight up in the
air like that, when all the other poplars hold theirs out or hang them
down?" interjected Peter, who had been gazing intently at the slender
spire showing darkly against the fine blue eastern sky.
"Because it grows that way," said Felicity.
"Oh I know a story about that," cried the Story Girl. "Once upon a
time an old man found the pot of gold at the rainbow's end. There IS a
pot there, it is said, but it is very hard to find because you can
never get to the rainbow's end before it vanishes from your sight. But
this old man found it, just at sunset, when Iris, the guardian of the
rainbow gold, happened to be absent. As he was a long way from home,
and the pot was very big and heavy, he decided to hide it until morning
and then get one of his sons to go with him and help him carry it. So
he hid it under the boughs of the sleeping poplar tree.
"When Iris came back she missed the pot of gold and of course she
was in a sad way about it. She sent Mercury, the messenger of the
gods, to look for it, for she didn't dare leave the rainbow again, lest
somebody should run off with that too. Mercury asked all the trees if
they had seen the pot of gold, and the elm, oak and pine pointed to the
poplar and said,
"'The poplar can tell you where it is.'
"'How can I tell you where it is?' cried the poplar, and she held
up all her branches in surprise, just as we hold up our hands--and down
tumbled the pot of gold. The poplar was amazed and indignant, for she
was a very honest tree. She stretched her boughs high above her head
and declared that she would always hold them like that, so that nobody
could hide stolen gold under them again. And she taught all the little
poplars she knew to stand the same way, and that is why Lombardy
poplars always do. But the aspen poplar leaves are always shaking,
even on the very calmest day. And do you know why?"
And then she told us the old legend that the cross on which the
Saviour of the world suffered was made of aspen poplar wood and so
never again could its poor, shaken, shivering leaves know rest or
peace. There was an aspen in the orchard, the very embodiment of youth
and spring in its litheness and symmetry. Its little leaves were
hanging tremulously, not yet so fully blown as to hide its development
of bough and twig, making poetry against the spiritual tints of a
"It does look sad," said Peter, "but it is a pretty tree, and it
wasn't its fault."
"There's a heavy dew and it's time we stopped talking nonsense and
went in," decreed Felicity. "If we don't we'll all have a cold, and
then we'll be miserable enough, but it won't be very exciting."
"All the same, I wish something exciting would happen," finished
the Story Girl, as we walked up through the orchard, peopled with its
"There's a new moon tonight, so may be you'll get your wish," said
Peter. "My Aunt Jane didn't believe there was anything in the moon
business, but you never can tell."
The Story Girl did get her wish. Something happened the very next
day. She joined us in the afternoon with a quite indescribable
expression on her face, compounded of triumph, anticipation, and
regret. Her eyes betrayed that she had been crying, but in them shone
a chastened exultation. Whatever the Story Girl mourned over it was
evident she was not without hope.
"I have some news to tell you," she said importantly. "Can you
guess what it is?"
We couldn't and wouldn't try.
"Tell us right off," implored Felix. "You look as if it was
"So it is. Listen--Aunt Olivia is going to be married."
We stared in blank amazement. Peg Bowen's hint had faded from our
minds and we had never put much faith in it.
"Aunt Olivia! I don't believe it," cried Felicity flatly. "Who
"Aunt Olivia herself. So it is perfectly true. I'm awfully sorry
in one way--but oh, won't it be splendid to have a real wedding in the
family? She's going to have a big wedding--and I am to be bridesmaid."
"I shouldn't think you were old enough to be a bridesmaid," said
"I'm nearly fifteen. Anyway, Aunt Olivia says I have to be."
"Who's she going to marry?" asked Cecily, gathering herself
together after the shock, and finding that the world was going on just
"His name is Dr. Seton and he is a Halifax man. She met him when
she was at Uncle Edward's last summer. They've been engaged ever
since. The wedding is to be the third week in June."
"And our school concert comes off the next week," complained
Felicity. "Why do things always come together like that? And what are
you going to do if Aunt Olivia is going away?"
"I'm coming to live at your house," answered the Story Girl rather
timidly. She did not know how Felicity might like that. But Felicity
took it rather well.
"You've been here most of the time anyhow, so it'll just be that
you'll sleep and eat here, too. But what's to become of Uncle Roger?"
"Aunt Olivia says he'll have to get married, too. But Uncle Roger
says he'd rather hire a housekeeper than marry one, because in the
first case he could turn her off if he didn't like her, but in the
second case he couldn't."
"There'll be a lot of cooking to do for the wedding," reflected
Felicity in a tone of satisfaction.
"I s'pose Aunt Olivia will want some rusks made. I hope she has
plenty of tooth-powder laid in," said Dan.
"It's a pity you don't use some of that tooth-powder you're so fond
of talking about yourself," retorted Felicity. "When anyone has a
mouth the size of yours the teeth show so plain."
"I brush my teeth every Sunday," asseverated Dan.
"Every Sunday! You ought to brush them every DAY."
"Did anyone ever hear such nonsense?" demanded Dan sincerely.
"Well, you know, it really does say so in the Family Guide," said
"Then the Family Guide people must have lots more spare time than I
have," retorted Dan contemptuously.
"Just think, the Story Girl will have her name in the papers if
she's bridesmaid," marvelled Sara Ray.
"In the Halifax papers, too," added Felix, "since Dr. Seton is a
Halifax man. What is his first name?"
"And will we have to call him Uncle Robert?"
"Not until he's married to her. Then we will, of course."
"I hope your Aunt Olivia won't disappear before the ceremony,"
remarked Sara Ray, who was surreptitiously reading "The Vanquished
Bride," by Valeria H. Montague in the Family Guide.
"I hope Dr. Seton won't fail to show up, like your cousin Rachel
Ward's beau," said Peter.
"That makes me think of another story I read the other day about
Great-uncle Andrew King and Aunt Georgina," laughed the Story Girl.
"It happened eighty years ago. It was a very stormy winter and the
roads were bad. Uncle Andrew lived in Carlisle, and Aunt Georgina--she
was Miss Georgina Matheson then--lived away up west, so he couldn't get
to see her very often. They agreed to be married that winter, but
Georgina couldn't set the day exactly because her brother, who lived in
Ontario, was coming home for a visit, and she wanted to be married
while he was home. So it was arranged that she was to write Uncle
Andrew and tell him what day to come. She did, and she told him to
come on a Tuesday. But her writing wasn't very good and poor Uncle
Andrew thought she wrote Thursday. So on Thursday he drove all the way
to Georgina's home to be married. It was forty miles and a bitter cold
day. But it wasn't any colder than the reception he got from Georgina.
She was out in the porch, with her head tied up in a towel, picking
geese. She had been all ready Tuesday, and her friends and the
minister were there, and the wedding supper prepared. But there was no
bridegroom and Georgina was furious. Nothing Uncle Andrew could say
would appease her. She wouldn't listen to a word of explanation, but
told him to go, and never show his nose there again. So poor Uncle
Andrew had to go ruefully home, hoping that she would relent later on,
because he was really very much in love with her."
"And did she?" queried Felicity.
"She did. Thirteen years exactly from that day they were married.
It took her just that long to forgive him."
"It took her just that long to find out she couldn't get anybody
else," said Dan, cynically.
CHAPTER XIV. A PRODIGAL RETURNS
Aunt Olivia and the Story Girl lived in a whirlwind of dressmaking
after that, and enjoyed it hugely. Cecily and Felicity also had to
have new dresses for the great event, and they talked of little else
for a fortnight. Cecily declared that she hated to go to sleep because
she was sure to dream that she was at Aunt Olivia's wedding in her old
faded gingham dress and a ragged apron.
"And no shoes or stockings," she added, "and I can't move, and
everyone walks past and looks at my feet."
"That's only in a dream," mourned Sara Ray, "but I may have to wear
my last summer's white dress to the wedding. It's too short, but ma
says it's plenty good for this summer. I'll be so mortified if I have
to wear it."
"I'd rather not go at all than wear a dress that wasn't nice," said
"I'd go to the wedding if I had to go in my school dress," cried
Sara Ray. "I've never been to anything. I wouldn't miss it for the
"My Aunt Jane always said that if you were neat and tidy it didn't
matter whether you were dressed fine or not," said Peter.
"I'm sick and tired of hearing about your Aunt Jane," said Felicity
Peter looked grieved but held his peace. Felicity was very hard on
him that spring, but his loyalty never wavered. Everything she said or
did was right in Peter's eyes.
"It's all very well to be neat and tidy," said Sara Ray, "but I
like a little style too."
"I think you'll find your mother will get you a new dress after
all," comforted Cecily. "Anyway, nobody will notice you because
everyone will be looking at the bride. Aunt Olivia will make a lovely
bride. Just think how sweet she'll look in a white silk dress and a
"She says she is going to have the ceremony performed out here in
the orchard under her own tree," said the Story Girl. "Won't that be
romantic? It almost makes me feel like getting married myself."
"What a way to talk," rebuked Felicity, "and you only fifteen."
"Lots of people have been married at fifteen," laughed the Story
Girl. "Lady Jane Gray was."
"But you are always saying that Valeria H. Montague's stories are
silly and not true to life, so that is no argument," retorted Felicity,
who knew more about cooking than about history, and evidently imagined
that the Lady Jane Gray was one of Valeria's titled heroines.
The wedding was a perennial source of conversation among us in
those days; but presently its interest palled for a time in the light
of another quite tremendous happening. One Saturday night Peter's
mother called to take him home with her for Sunday. She had been
working at Mr. James Frewen's, and Mr. Frewen was driving her home. We
had never seen Peter's mother before, and we looked at her with
discreet curiosity. She was a plump, black-eyed little woman, neat as
a pin, but with a rather tired and care-worn face that looked as if it
should have been rosy and jolly. Life had been a hard battle for her,
and I rather think that her curly- headed little lad was all that had
kept heart and spirit in her. Peter went home with her and returned
Sunday evening. We were in the orchard sitting around the Pulpit
Stone, where we had, according to the custom of the households of King,
been learning our golden texts and memory verses for the next Sunday
School lesson. Paddy, grown sleek and handsome again, was sitting on
the stone itself, washing his jowls.
Peter joined us with a very queer expression on his face. He
seemed bursting with some news which he wanted to tell and yet hardly
"Why are you looking so mysterious, Peter?" demanded the Story
"What do you think has happened?" asked Peter solemnly.
"My father has come home," answered Peter.
The announcement produced all the sensation he could have wished.
We crowded around him in excitement.
"Peter! When did he come back?"
"Saturday night. He was there when ma and I got home. It give her
an awful turn. I didn't know him at first, of course."
"Peter Craig, I believe you are glad your father has come back,"
cried the Story Girl.
"'Course I'm glad," retorted Peter.
"And after you saying you didn't want ever to see him again," said
"You just wait. You haven't heard my story yet. I wouldn't have
been glad to see father if he'd come back the same as he went away.
But he is a changed man. He happened to go into a revival meeting one
night this spring and he got converted. And he's come home to stay,
and he says he's never going to drink another drop, but he's going to
look after his family. Ma isn't to do any more washing for nobody but
him and me, and I'm not to be a hired boy any longer. He says I can
stay with your Uncle Roger till the fall 'cause I promised I would, but
after that I'm to stay home and go to school right along and learn to
be whatever I'd like to be. I tell you it made me feel queer.
Everything seemed to be upset. But he gave ma forty dollars--every
cent he had--so I guess he really is converted."
"I hope it will last, I'm sure," said Felicity. She did not say it
nastily, however. We were all glad for Peter's sake, though a little
dizzy over the unexpectedness of it all.
"This is what I'D like to know," said Peter. "How did Peg Bowen
know my father was coming home? Don't you tell me she isn't a witch
"And she knew about your Aunt Olivia's wedding, too," added Sara
"Oh, well, she likely heard that from some one. Grown up folks
talk things over long before they tell them to children," said Cecily.
"Well, she couldn't have heard father was coming home from any
one," answered Peter. "He was converted up in Maine, where nobody knew
him, and he never told a soul he was coming till he got here. No, you
can believe what you like, but I'm satisfied at last that Peg is a
witch and that skull of hers does tell her things. She told me father
was coming home and he come!"
"How happy you must be," sighed Sara Ray romantically. "It's just
like that story in the Family Guide, where the missing earl comes home
to his family just as the Countess and Lady Violetta are going to be
turned out by the cruel heir."
"There's some difference, I guess. The earl had been imprisoned
for years in a loathsome dungeon."
Perhaps Peter's father had too, if we but realized it--imprisoned
in the dungeon of his own evil appetites and habits, than which none
could be more loathsome. But a Power, mightier than the forces of
evil, had struck off his fetters and led him back to his long-forfeited
liberty and light. And no countess or lady of high degree could have
welcomed a long-lost earl home more joyfully than the tired little
washerwoman had welcomed the erring husband of her youth.
But in Peter's ointment of joy there was a fly or two. So very,
very few things are flawless in this world, even on the golden road.
"Of course I'm awful glad that father has come back and that ma
won't have to wash any more," he said with a sigh, "but there are two
things that kind of worry me. My Aunt Jane always said that it didn't
do any good to worry, and I s'pose it don't, but it's kind of a
"What's worrying you?" asked Felix.
"Well, for one thing I'll feel awful bad to go away from you all.
I'll miss you just dreadful, and I won't even be able to go to the
same school. I'll have to go to Markdale school."
"But you must come and see us often," said Felicity graciously.
"Markdale isn't so far away, and you could spend every other Saturday
afternoon with us anyway."
Peter's black eyes filled with adoring gratitude.
"That's so kind of you, Felicity. I'll come as often as I can, of
course; but it won't be the same as being around with you all the time.
The other thing is even worse. You see, it was a Methodist revival
father got converted in, and so of course he joined the Methodist
church. He wasn't anything before. He used to say he was a
Nothingarian and lived up to it--kind of bragging like. But he's a
strong Methodist now, and is going to go to Markdale Methodist church
and pay to the salary. Now what'll he say when I tell him I'm a
"You haven't told him, yet?" asked the Story Girl.
"No, I didn't dare. I was scared he'd say I'd have to be a
"Well, Methodists are pretty near as good as Presbyterians," said
Felicity, with the air of one making a great concession.
"I guess they're every bit as good," retorted Peter. "But that
ain't the point. I've got to be a Presbyterian, 'cause I stick to a
thing when I once decide it. But I expect father will be mad when he
"If he's converted he oughtn't to get mad," said Dan.
"Well, lots o' people do. But if he isn't mad he'll be sorry, and
that'll be even worse, for a Presbyterian I'm bound to be. But I
expect it will make things unpleasant."
"You needn't tell him anything about it," advised Felicity. "Just
keep quiet and go to the Methodist church until you get big, and then
you can go where you please."
"No, that wouldn't be honest," said Peter sturdily. "My Aunt Jane
always said it was best to be open and above board in everything, and
especially in religion. So I'll tell father right out, but I'll wait a
few weeks so as not to spoil things for ma too soon if he acts up."
Peter was not the only one who had secret cares. Sara Ray was
beginning to feel worried over her looks. I heard her and Cecily
talking over their troubles one evening while I was weeding the onion
bed and they were behind the hedge knitting lace. I did not mean to
eavesdrop. I supposed they knew I was there until Cecily overwhelmed
me with indignation later on.
"I'm so afraid, Cecily, that I'm going to be homely all my life,"
said poor Sara with a tremble in her voice. "You can stand being ugly
when you are young if you have any hope of being better looking when
you grow up. But I'm getting worse. Aunt Mary says I'm going to be
the very image of Aunt Matilda. And Aunt Matilda is as homely as she
can be. It isn't"--and poor Sara sighed--"a very cheerful prospect.
If I am ugly nobody will ever want to marry me, and," concluded Sara
candidly, "I don't want to be an old maid."
"But plenty of girls get married who aren't a bit pretty,"
comforted Cecily. "Besides, you are real nice looking at times, Sara.
I think you are going to have a nice figure."
"But just look at my hands," moaned Sara. "They're simply covered
"Oh, the warts will all disappear before you grow up," said Cecily.
"But they won't disappear before the school concert. How am I to
get up there and recite? You know there is one line in my recitation,
'She waved her lily-white hand,' and I have to wave mine when I say it.
Fancy waving a lily-white hand all covered with warts. I've tried
every remedy I ever heard of, but nothing does any good. Judy Pineau
said if I rubbed them with toad-spit it would take them away for sure.
But how am I to get any toad- spit?"
"It doesn't sound like a very nice remedy, anyhow," shuddered
Cecily. "I'd rather have the warts. But do you know, I believe if you
didn't cry so much over every little thing, you'd be ever so much
better looking. Crying spoils your eyes and makes the end of your nose
"I can't help crying," protested Sara. "My feelings are so very
sensitive. I've given up trying to keep THAT resolution."
"Well, men don't like cry-babies," said Cecily sagely. Cecily had
a good deal of Mother Eve's wisdom tucked away in that smooth, brown
head of hers.
"Cecily, do you ever intend to be married?" asked Sara in a
"Goodness!" cried Cecily, quite shocked. "It will be time enough
when I grow up to think of that, Sara."
"I should think you'd have to think of it now, with Cyrus Brisk as
crazy after you as he is."
"I wish Cyrus Brisk was at the bottom of the Red Sea," exclaimed
Cecily, goaded into a spurt of temper by mention of the detested name.
"What has Cyrus been doing now?" asked Felicity, coming around the
corner of the hedge.
"Doing NOW! It's ALL the time. He just worries me to death,"
returned Cecily angrily. "He keeps writing me letters and putting them
in my desk or in my reader. I never answer one of them, but he keeps
on. And in the last one, mind you, he said he'd do something desperate
right off if I wouldn't promise to marry him when we grew up."
"Just think, Cecily, you've had a proposal already," said Sara Ray
in an awe-struck tone.
"But he hasn't done anything desperate yet, and that was last
week," commented Felicity, with a toss of her head.
"He sent me a lock of his hair and wanted one of mine in exchange,"
continued Cecily indignantly. "I tell you I sent his back to him
"Did you never answer any of his letters?" asked Sara Ray.
"No, indeed! I guess not!"
"Do you know," said Felicity, "I believe if you wrote him just once
and told him your exact opinion of him in good plain English it would
cure him of his nonsense."
"I couldn't do that. I haven't enough spunk," confessed Cecily
with a blush. "But I'll tell you what I did do once. He wrote me a
long letter last week. It was just awfully SOFT, and every other word
was spelled wrong. He even spelled baking soda, 'bacon soda!'"
"What on earth had he to say about baking soda in a love-letter?"
"Oh, he said his mother sent him to the store for some and he
forgot it because he was thinking about me. Well, I just took his
letter and wrote in all the words, spelled right, above the wrong ones,
in red ink, just as Mr. Perkins makes us do with our dictation
exercises, and sent it back to him. I thought maybe he'd feel insulted
and stop writing to me."
"And did he?"
"No, he didn't. It is my opinion you can't insult Cyrus Brisk. He
is too thick-skinned. He wrote another letter, and thanked me for
correcting his mistakes, and said it made him feel glad because it
showed I was beginning to take an interest in him when I wanted him to
spell better. Did you ever? Miss Marwood says it is wrong to hate
anyone, but I don't care, I hate Cyrus Brisk."
"Mrs. Cyrus Brisk WOULD be an awful name," giggled Felicity.
"Flossie Brisk says Cyrus is ruining all the trees on his father's
place cutting your name on them," said Sara Ray. "His father told him
he would whip him if he didn't stop, but Cyrus keeps right on. He told
Flossie it relieved his feelings. Flossie says he cut yours and his
together on the birch tree in front of the parlour window, and a row of
hearts around them."
"Just where every visitor can see them, I suppose," lamented
Cecily. "He just worries my life out. And what I mind most of all is,
he sits and looks at me in school with such melancholy, reproachful
eyes when he ought to be working sums. I won't look at him, but I FEEL
him staring at me, and it makes me so nervous."
"They say his mother was out of her mind at one time," said
I do not think Felicity was quite well pleased that Cyrus should
have passed over her rose-red prettiness to set his affections on that
demure elf of a Cecily. She did not want the allegiance of Cyrus in
the least, but it was something of a slight that he had not wanted her
to want it.
"And he sends me pieces of poetry he cuts out of the papers,"
Cecily went on, "with lots of the lines marked with a lead pencil.
Yesterday he put one in his letter, and this is what he marked:
"'If you will not relent to me
Then must I learn to know
Darkness alone till life be flown.
Here--I have the piece in my sewing-bag--I'll read it all to you."
Those three graceless girls read the sentimental rhyme and giggled
over it. Poor Cyrus! His young affections were sadly misplaced. But
after all, though Cecily never relented towards him, he did not condemn
himself to darkness alone till life was flown. Quite early in life he
wedded a stout, rosy, buxom lass, the very antithesis of his first
love; he prospered in his undertakings, raised a large and respectable
family, and was eventually appointed a Justice of the Peace. Which was
all very sensible of Cyrus.
CHAPTER XV. THE RAPE OF THE LOCK
June was crowded full of interest that year. We gathered in with
its sheaf of fragrant days the choicest harvest of childhood. Things
happened right along. Cecily declared she hated to go to sleep for
fear she might miss something. There were so many dear delights along
the golden road to give us pleasure--the earth dappled with new
blossom, the dance of shadows in the fields, the rustling, rain-wet
ways of the woods, the faint fragrance in meadow lanes, liltings of
birds and croon of bees in the old orchard, windy pipings on the hills,
sunset behind the pines, limpid dews filling primrose cups, crescent
moons through darklings boughs, soft nights alight with blinking stars.
We enjoyed all these boons, unthinkingly and light-heartedly, as
children do. And besides these, there was the absorbing little drama
of human life which was being enacted all around us, and in which each
of us played a satisfying part--the gay preparations for Aunt Olivia's
mid-June wedding, the excitement of practising for the concert with
which our school-teacher, Mr. Perkins, had elected to close the school
year, and Cecily's troubles with Cyrus Brisk, which furnished unholy
mirth for the rest of us, though Cecily could not see the funny side of
it at all.
Matters went from bad to worse in the case of the irrepressible
Cyrus. He continued to shower Cecily with notes, the spelling of which
showed no improvement; he worried the life out of her by constantly
threatening to fight Willy Fraser--although, as Felicity sarcastically
pointed out, he never did it.
"But I'm always afraid he will," said Cecily, "and it would be such
a DISGRACE to have two boys fighting over me in school."
"You must have encouraged Cyrus a little in the beginning or he'd
never have been so persevering," said Felicity unjustly.
"I never did!" cried outraged Cecily. "You know very well,
Felicity King, that I hated Cyrus Brisk ever since the very first time
I saw his big, fat, red face. So there!"
"Felicity is just jealous because Cyrus didn't take a notion to her
instead of you, Sis," said Dan.
"Talk sense!" snapped Felicity.
"If I did you wouldn't understand me, sweet little sister,"
rejoined aggravating Dan.
Finally Cyrus crowned his iniquities by stealing the denied lock of
Cecily's hair. One sunny afternoon in school, Cecily and Kitty Marr
asked and received permission to sit out on the side bench before the
open window, where the cool breeze swept in from the green fields
beyond. To sit on this bench was always considered a treat, and was
only allowed as a reward of merit; but Cecily and Kitty had another
reason for wishing to sit there. Kitty had read in a magazine that
sun-baths were good for the hair; so both she and Cecily tossed their
long braids over the window-sill and let them hang there in the
broiling sun-shine. And while Cecily sat thus, diligently working a
fraction sum on her slate, that base Cyrus asked permission to go out,
having previously borrowed a pair of scissors from one of the big girls
who did fancy work at the noon recess. Outside, Cyrus sneaked up close
to the window and cut off a piece of Cecily's hair.
This rape of the lock did not produce quite such terrible
consequences as the more famous one in Pope's poem, but Cecily's soul
was no less agitated than Belinda's. She cried all the way home from
school about it, and only checked her tears when Dan declared he'd
fight Cyrus and make him give it up.
"Oh, no, You mustn't." said Cecily, struggling with her sobs. "I
won't have you fighting on my account for anything. And besides, he'd
likely lick you--he's so big and rough. And the folks at home might
find out all about it, and Uncle Roger would never give me any peace,
and mother would be cross, for she'd never believe it wasn't my fault.
It wouldn't be so bad if he'd only taken a little, but he cut a great
big chunk right off the end of one of the braids. Just look at it.
I'll have to cut the other to make them fair--and they'll look so
But Cyrus' acquirement of the chunk of hair was his last triumph.
His downfall was near; and, although it involved Cecily in a most
humiliating experience, over which she cried half the following night,
in the end she confessed it was worth undergoing just to get rid of
Mr. Perkins was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian. No
communication of any sort was permitted between his pupils during
school hours. Anyone caught violating this rule was promptly punished
by the infliction of one of the weird penances for which Mr. Perkins
was famous, and which were generally far worse than ordinary whipping.
One day in school Cyrus sent a letter across to Cecily. Usually he
left his effusions in her desk, or between the leaves of her books; but
this time it was passed over to her under cover of the desk through the
hands of two or three scholars. Just as Em Frewen held it over the
aisle Mr. Perkins wheeled around from his station before the blackboard
and caught her in the act.
"Bring that here, Emmeline," he commanded.
Cyrus turned quite pale. Em carried the note to Mr. Perkins. He
took it, held it up, and scrutinized the address.
"Did you write this to Cecily, Emmeline?" he asked.
"Who wrote it then?"
Em said quite shamelessly that she didn't know--it had just been
passed over from the next row.
"And I suppose you have no idea where it came from?" said Mr.
Perkins, with his frightful, sardonic grin. "Well, perhaps Cecily can
tell us. You may take your seat, Emmeline, and you will remain at the
foot of your spelling class for a week as punishment for passing the
note. Cecily, come here."
Indignant Em sat down and poor, innocent Cecily was haled forth to
public ignominy. She went with a crimson face.
"Cecily," said her tormentor, "do you know who wrote this letter to
Cecily, like a certain renowned personage, could not tell a lie.
"I--I think so, sir," she murmured faintly.
"Who was it?"
"I can't tell you that," stammered Cecily, on the verge of tears.
"Ah!" said Mr. Perkins politely. "Well, I suppose I could easily
find out by opening it. But it is very impolite to open other people's
letters. I think I have a better plan. Since you refuse to tell me
who wrote it, open it yourself, take this chalk, and copy the contents
on the blackboard that we may all enjoy them. And sign the writer's
name at the bottom."
"Oh," gasped Cecily, choosing the lesser of two evils, "I'll tell
you who wrote it--it was--
"Hush!" Mr. Perkins checked her with a gentle motion of his hand.
He was always most gentle when most inexorable. "You did not obey me
when I first ordered you to tell me the writer. You cannot have the
privilege of doing so now. Open the note, take the chalk, and do as I
Worms will turn, and even meek, mild, obedient little souls like
Cecily may be goaded to the point of wild, sheer rebellion.
"I--I won't!" she cried passionately.
Mr. Perkins, martinet though he was, would hardly, I think, have
inflicted such a punishment on Cecily, who was a favourite of his, had
he known the real nature of that luckless missive. But, as he
afterwards admitted, he thought it was merely a note from some other
girl, of such trifling sort as school-girls are wont to write; and
moreover, he had already committed himself to the decree, which, like
those of Mede and Persian, must not alter. To let Cecily off, after
her mad defiance, would be to establish a revolutionary precedent.
"So you really think you won't?" he queried smilingly. "Well, on
second thoughts, you may take your choice. Either you will do as I
have bidden you, or you will sit for three days with"--Mr. Perkins' eye
skimmed over the school-room to find a boy who was sitting alone--"with
This choice of Mr. Perkins, who knew nothing of the little drama of
emotions that went on under the routine of lessons and exercises in his
domain, was purely accidental, but we took it at the time as a stroke
of diabolical genius. It left Cecily no choice. She would have done
almost anything before she would have sat with Cyrus Brisk. With
flashing eyes she tore open the letter, snatched up the chalk, and
dashed at the blackboard.
In a few minutes the contents of that letter graced the expanse
usually sacred to more prosaic compositions. I cannot reproduce it
verbatim, for I had no after opportunity of refreshing my memory. But
I remember that it was exceedingly sentimental and exceedingly
ill-spelled--for Cecily mercilessly copied down poor Cyrus' mistakes.
He wrote her that he wore her hare over his hart--"and he stole it,"
Cecily threw passionately over her shoulder at Mr. Perkins--that her
eyes were so sweet and lovely that he couldn't find words nice enuf to
describ them, that he could never forget how butiful she had looked in
prar meeting the evening before, and that some meels he couldn't eat
for thinking of her, with more to the same effect and he signed it
"yours till deth us do part, Cyrus Brisk."
As the writing proceeded we scholars exploded into smothered
laughter, despite our awe of Mr. Perkins. Mr. Perkins himself could
not keep a straight face. He turned abruptly away and looked out of
the window, but we could see his shoulders shaking. When Cecily had
finished and had thrown down the chalk with bitter vehemence, he turned
around with a very red face.
"That will do. You may sit down. Cyrus, since it seems you are
the guilty person, take the eraser and wipe that off the board. Then
go stand in the corner, facing the room, and hold your arms straight
above your head until I tell you to take them down."
Cyrus obeyed and Cecily fled to her seat and wept, nor did Mr.
Perkins meddle with her more that day. She bore her burden of
humiliation bitterly for several days, until she was suddenly comforted
by a realization that Cyrus had ceased to persecute her. He wrote no
more letters, he gazed no longer in rapt adoration, he brought no more
votive offerings of gum and pencils to her shrine. At first we thought
he had been cured by the unmerciful chaffing he had to undergo from his
mates, but eventually his sister told Cecily the true reason. Cyrus
had at last been driven to believe that Cecily's aversion to him was
real, and not merely the defence of maiden coyness. If she hated him
so intensely that she would rather write that note on the blackboard
than sit with him, what use was it to sigh like a furnace longer for
her? Mr. Perkins had blighted love's young dream for Cyrus with a
killing frost. Thenceforth sweet Cecily kept the noiseless tenor of
her way unvexed by the attentions of enamoured swains.
CHAPTER XVI. AUNT UNA'S STORY
Felicity, and Cecily, Dan, Felix, Sara Ray and I were sitting one
evening on the mossy stones in Uncle Roger's hill pasture, where we had
sat the morning the Story Girl told us the tale of the Wedding Veil of
the Proud Princess. But it was evening now and the valley beneath us
was brimmed up with the glow of the afterlight. Behind us, two tall,
shapely spruce trees rose up against the sunset, and through the dark
oriel of their sundered branches an evening star looked down. We sat
on a little strip of emerald grassland and before us was a sloping
meadow all white with daisies.
We were waiting for Peter and the Story Girl. Peter had gone to
Markdale after dinner to spend the afternoon with his reunited parents
because it was his birthday. He had left us grimly determined to
confess to his father the dark secret of his Presbyterianism, and we
were anxious to know what the result had been. The Story Girl had gone
that morning with Miss Reade to visit the latter's home near
Charlottetown, and we expected soon to see her coming gaily along over
the fields from the Armstrong place.
Presently Peter came jauntily stepping along the field path up the
"Hasn't Peter got tall?" said Cecily.
"Peter is growing to be a very fine looking boy," decreed Felicity.
"I notice he's got ever so much handsomer since his father came
home," said Dan, with a killing sarcasm that was wholly lost on
Felicity, who gravely responded that she supposed it was because Peter
felt so much freer from care and responsibility.
"What luck, Peter?" yelled Dan, as soon as Peter was within
"Everything's all right," he shouted jubilantly. "I told father
right off, licketty-split, as soon as I got home," he added when he
reached us. "I was anxious to have it over with. I says, solemn-like,
'Dad, there's something I've got to tell you, and I don't know how
you'll take it, but it can't be helped,' I says. Dad looked pretty
sober, and he says, says he, 'What have you been up to, Peter? Don't
be afraid to tell me. I've been forgiven to seventy times seven, so
surely I can forgive a little, too?' 'Well,' I says, desperate-like,
'the truth is, father, I'm a Presbyterian. I made up my mind last
summer, the time of the Judgment Day, that I'd be a Presbyterian, and
I've got to stick to it. I'm sorry I can't be a Methodist, like you
and mother and Aunt Jane, but I can't and that's all there is to it,' I
says. Then I waited, scared-like. But father, he just looked relieved
and he says, says he, 'Goodness, boy, you can be a Presbyterian or
anything else you like, so long as it's Protestant. I'm not caring,'
he says. 'The main thing is that you must be good and do what's
right.' I tell you," concluded Peter emphatically, "father is a
Christian all right."
"Well, I suppose your mind will be at rest now," said Felicity.
"What's that you have in your buttonhole?"
"That's a four-leaved clover," answered Peter exultantly. "That
means good luck for the summer. I found it in Markdale. There ain't
much clover in Carlisle this year of any kind of leaf. The crop is
going to be a failure. Your Uncle Roger says it's because there ain't
enough old maids in Carlisle. There's lots of them in Markdale, and
that's the reason, he says, why they always have such good clover crops
"What on earth have old maids to do with it?" cried Cecily.
"I don't believe they've a single thing to do with it, but Mr.
Roger says they have, and he says a man called Darwin proved it. This
is the rigmarole he got off to me the other day. The clover crop
depends on there being plenty of bumble-bees, because they are the only
insects with tongues long enough to--to--fer-- fertilize--I think he
called it the blossoms. But mice eat bumble-bees and cats eat mice and
old maids keep cats. So your Uncle Roger says the more old maids the
more cats, and the more cats the fewer field-mice, and the fewer
field-mice the more bumble-bees, and the more bumble-bees the better
"So don't worry if you do get to be old maids, girls," said Dan.
"Remember, you'll be helping the clover crops."
"I never heard such stuff as you boys talk," said Felicity, "and
Uncle Roger is no better."
"There comes the Story Girl," cried Cecily eagerly. "Now we'll
hear all about Beautiful Alice's home."
The Story Girl was bombarded with eager questions as soon as she
arrived. Miss Reade's home was a dream of a place, it appeared. The
house was just covered with ivy and there was a most delightful old
garden--"and," added the Story Girl, with the joy of a connoisseur who
has found a rare gem, "the sweetest little story connected with it.
And I saw the hero of the story too."
"Where was the heroine?" queried Cecily.
"She is dead."
"Oh, of course she'd have to die," exclaimed Dan in disgust. "I'd
like a story where somebody lived once in awhile."
"I've told you heaps of stories where people lived," retorted the
Story Girl. "If this heroine hadn't died there wouldn't have been any
story. She was Miss Reade's aunt and her name was Una, and I believe
she must have been just like Miss Reade herself. Miss Reade told me
all about her. When we went into the garden I saw in one corner of it
an old stone bench arched over by a couple of pear trees and all grown
about with grass and violets. And an old man was sitting on it--a bent
old man with long, snow-white hair and beautiful sad blue eyes. He
seemed very lonely and sorrowful and I wondered that Miss Reade didn't
speak to him. But she never let on she saw him and took me away to
another part of the garden. After awhile he got up and went away and
then Miss Reade said, 'Come over to Aunt Una's seat and I will tell you
about her and her lover--that man who has just gone out.'
"'Oh, isn't he too old for a lover?' I said.
"Beautiful Alice laughed and said it was forty years since he had
been her Aunt Una's lover. He had been a tall, handsome young man
then, and her Aunt Una was a beautiful girl of nineteen.
"We went over and sat down and Miss Reade told me all about her.
She said that when she was a child she had heard much of her Aunt
Una--that she seemed to have been one of those people who are not soon
forgotten, whose personality seems to linger about the scenes of their
lives long after they have passed away."
"What is a personality? Is it another word for ghost?" asked
"No," said the Story Girl shortly. "I can't stop in a story to
"I don't believe you know what it is yourself," said Felicity.
The Story Girl picked up her hat, which she had thrown down on the
grass, and placed it defiantly on her brown curls.
"I'm going in," she announced. "I have to help Aunt Olivia ice a
cake tonight, and you all seem more interested in dictionaries than
"That's not fair," I exclaimed. "Dan and Felix and Sara Ray and
Cecily and I have never said a word. It's mean to punish us for what
Peter and Felicity did. We want to hear the rest of the story. Never
mind what a personality is but go on--and, Peter, you young ass, keep
"I only wanted to know," muttered Peter sulkily.
"I DO know what personality is, but it's hard to explain," said the
Story Girl, relenting. "It's what makes you different from Dan, Peter,
and me different from Felicity or Cecily. Miss Reade's Aunt Una had a
personality that was very uncommon. And she was beautiful, too, with
white skin and night-black eyes and hair--a 'moonlight beauty,' Miss
Reade called it. She used to keep a kind of a diary, and Miss Reade's
mother used to read parts of it to her. She wrote verses in it and
they were lovely; and she wrote descriptions of the old garden which
she loved very much. Miss Reade said that everything in the garden,
plot or shrub or tree, recalled to her mind some phrase or verse of her
Aunt Una's, so that the whole place seemed full of her, and her memory
haunted the walks like a faint, sweet perfume.
"Una had, as I've told you, a lover; and they were to have been
married on her twentieth birthday. Her wedding dress was to have been
a gown of white brocade with purple violets in it. But a little while
before it she took ill with fever and died; and she was buried on her
birthday instead of being married. It was just in the time of opening
roses. Her lover has been faithful to her ever since; he has never
married, and every June, on her birthday, he makes a pilgrimage to the
old garden and sits for a long time in silence on the bench where he
used to woo her on crimson eves and moonlight nights of long ago. Miss
Reade says she always loves to see him sitting there because it gives
her such a deep and lasting sense of the beauty and strength of love
which can thus outlive time and death. And sometimes, she says, it
gives her a little eerie feeling, too, as if her Aunt Una were really
sitting there beside him, keeping tryst, although she has been in her
grave for forty years."
"It would be real romantic to die young and have your lover make a
pilgrimage to your garden every year," reflected Sara Ray.
"It would be more comfortable to go on living and get married to
him," said Felicity. "Mother says all those sentimental ideas are bosh
and I expect they are. It's a wonder Beautiful Alice hasn't a beau
herself. She is so pretty and lady-like."
"The Carlisle fellows all say she is too stuck up," said Dan.
"There's nobody in Carlisle half good enough for her," cried the
Story Girl, "except--ex-cept--"
"Except who?" asked Felix.
"Never mind," said the Story Girl mysteriously.
CHAPTER XVII. AUNT OLIVIA'S WEDDING
What a delightful, old-fashioned, wholesome excitement there was
about Aunt Olivia's wedding! The Monday and Tuesday preceding it we
did not go to school at all, but were all kept home to do chores and
run errands. The cooking and decorating and arranging that went on
those two days was amazing, and Felicity was so happy over it all that
she did not even quarrel with Dan--though she narrowly escaped it when
he told her that the Governor's wife was coming to the wedding.
"Mind you have some of her favourite rusks for her," he said.
"I guess," said Felicity with dignity, "that Aunt Olivia's wedding
supper will be good enough for even a Governor's wife."
"I s'pose none of us except the Story Girl will get to the first
table," said Felix, rather gloomily.
"Never mind," comforted Felicity. "There's a whole turkey to be
kept for us, and a freezerful of ice cream. Cecily and I are going to
wait on the tables, and we'll put away a little of everything that's
extra nice for our suppers."
"I do so want to have my supper with you," sighed Sara Ray, "but I
s'pose ma will drag me with her wherever she goes. She won't trust me
out of her sight a minute the whole evening--I know she won't."
"I'll get Aunt Olivia to ask her to let you have your supper with
us," said Cecily. "She can't refuse the bride's request."
"You don't know all ma can do," returned Sara darkly. "No, I feel
that I'll have to eat my supper with her. But I suppose I ought to be
very thankful I'm to get to the wedding at all, and that ma did get me
a new white dress for it. Even yet I'm so scared something will happen
to prevent me from getting to it."
Monday evening shrouded itself in clouds, and all night long the
voice of the wind answered to the voice of the rain. Tuesday the
downpour continued. We were quite frantic about it. Suppose it kept
on raining over Wednesday! Aunt Olivia couldn't be married in the
orchard then. That would be too bad, especially when the late apple
tree had most obligingly kept its store of blossom until after all the
other trees had faded and then burst lavishly into bloom for Aunt
Olivia's wedding. That apple tree was always very late in blooming,
and this year it was a week later than usual. It was a sight to see--a
great tree-pyramid with high, far- spreading boughs, over which a
wealth of rosy snow seemed to have been flung. Never had bride a more
To our rapture, however, it cleared up beautifully Tuesday evening,
and the sun, before setting in purple pomp, poured a flood of wonderful
radiance over the whole great, green, diamond- dripping world,
promising a fair morrow. Uncle Alec drove off to the station through
it to bring home the bridegroom and his best man. Dan was full of a
wild idea that we should all meet them at the gate, armed with cowbells
and tin-pans, and "charivari" them up the lane. Peter sided with him,
but the rest of us voted down the suggestion.
"Do you want Dr. Seton to think we are a pack of wild Indians?"
asked Felicity severely. "A nice opinion he'd have of our manners!"
"Well, it's the only chance we'll have to chivaree them," grumbled
Dan. "Aunt Olivia wouldn't mind. SHE can take a joke."
"Ma would kill you if you did such a thing," warned Felicity. "Dr.
Seton lives in Halifax and they NEVER chivaree people there. He would
think it very vulgar."
"Then he should have stayed in Halifax and got married there,"
retorted Dan, sulkily.
We were very curious to see our uncle-elect. When he came and
Uncle Alec took him into the parlour, we were all crowded into the dark
corner behind the stairs to peep at him. Then we fled to the moonlight
world outside and discussed him at the dairy.
"He's bald," said Cecily disappointedly.
"And RATHER short and stout," said Felicity.
"He's forty, if he's a day," said Dan.
"Never you mind," cried the Story Girl loyally, "Aunt Olivia loves
him with all her heart."
"And more than that, he's got lots of money," added Felicity.
"Well, he may be all right," said Peter, "but it's my opinion that
your Aunt Olivia could have done just as well on the Island."
"YOUR opinion doesn't matter very much to our family," said
But when we made the acquaintance of Dr. Seton next morning we
liked him enormously, and voted him a jolly good fellow. Even Peter
remarked aside to me that he guessed Miss Olivia hadn't made much of a
mistake after all, though it was plain he thought she was running a
risk in not sticking to the Island. The girls had not much time to
discuss him with us. They were all exceedingly busy and whisked about
at such a rate that they seemed to possess the power of being in half a
dozen places at once. The importance of Felicity was quite terrible.
But after dinner came a lull.
"Thank goodness, everything is ready at last," breathed Felicity
devoutly, as we foregathered for a brief space in the fir wood. "We've
nothing more to do now but get dressed. It's really a serious thing to
have a wedding in the family."
"I have a note from Sara Ray," said Cecily. "Judy Pineau brought
it up when she brought Mrs. Ray's spoons. Just let me read it to
DEAREST CECILY:--A DREADFUL MISFORTUNE has happened to me. Last
night I went with Judy to water the cows and in the spruce bush we
found a WASPS' NEST and Judy thought it was AN OLD ONE and she POKED IT
WITH A STICK. And it was a NEW ONE, full of wasps, and they all flew
out and STUNG US TERRIBLY, on the face and hands. My face is all
swelled up and I can HARDLY SEE out of one eye. The SUFFERING was
awful but I didn't mind that as much as being scared ma wouldn't take
me to the wedding. But she says I can go and I'm going. I know that I
am a HARD-LOOKING SIGHT, but it isn't anything catching. I am writing
this so that you won't get a shock when you see me. Isn't it SO
STRANGE to think your dear Aunt Olivia is going away? How you will
miss her! But your loss will be her gain.
"'Your loving chum,
"That poor child," said the Story Girl.
"Well, all I hope is that strangers won't take her for one of the
family," remarked Felicity in a disgusted tone.
Aunt Olivia was married at five o'clock in the orchard under the
late apple tree. It was a pretty scene. The air was full of the
perfume of apple bloom, and the bees blundered foolishly and
delightfully from one blossom to another, half drunken with perfume.
The old orchard was full of smiling guests in wedding garments. Aunt
Olivia was most beautiful amid the frost of her bridal veil, and the
Story Girl, in an unusually long white dress, with her brown curls
clubbed up behind, looked so tall and grown- up that we hardly
recognized her. After the ceremony--during which Sara Ray cried all
the time--there was a royal wedding supper, and Sara Ray was permitted
to eat her share of the feast with us.
"I'm glad I was stung by the wasps after all," she said
delightedly. "If I hadn't been ma would never have let me eat with
you. She just got tired explaining to people what was the matter with
my face, and so she was glad to get rid of me. I know I look awful,
but, oh, wasn't the bride a dream?"
We missed the Story Girl, who, of course, had to have her supper at
the bridal table; but we were a hilarious little crew and the girls had
nobly kept their promise to save tid-bits for us. By the time the last
table was cleared away Aunt Olivia and our new uncle were ready to go.
There was an orgy of tears and leavetakings, and then they drove away
into the odorous moonlight night. Dan and Peter pursued them down the
lane with a fiendish din of bells and pans, much to Felicity's wrath.
But Aunt Olivia and Uncle Robert took it in good part and waved their
hands back to us with peals of laughter.
"They're just that pleased with themselves that they wouldn't mind
if there was an earthquake," said Felix, grinning.
"It's been splendid and exciting, and everything went off well,"
sighed Cecily, "but, oh dear, it's going to be so queer and lonesome
without Aunt Olivia. I just believe I'll cry all night."
"You're tired to death, that's what's the matter with you," said
Dan, returning. "You girls have worked like slaves today."
"Tomorrow will be even harder," said Felicity comfortingly.
"Everything will have to be cleaned up and put away."
Peg Bowen paid us a call the next day and was regaled with a feast
of fat things left over from the supper.
"Well, I've had all I can eat," she said, when she had finished and
brought out her pipe. "And that doesn't happen to me every day. There
ain't been as much marrying as there used to be, and half the time they
just sneak off to the minister, as if they were ashamed of it, and get
married without any wedding or supper. That ain't the King way,
though. And so Olivia's gone off at last. She weren't in any hurry
but they tell me she's done well. Time'll show."
"Why don't you get married yourself, Peg?" queried Uncle Roger
teasingly. We held our breath over his temerity.
"Because I'm not so easy to please as your wife will be," retorted
She departed in high good humour over her repartee. Meeting Sara
Ray on the doorstep she stopped and asked her what was the matter with
"Wasps," stammered Sara Ray, laconic from terror.
"Humph! And your hands?"
"I'll tell you what'll take them away. You get a pertater and go
out under the full moon, cut the pertater in two, rub your warts with
one half and say, 'One, two, three, warts, go away from me.' Then rub
them with the other half and say, 'One, two, three, four, warts, never
trouble me more.' Then bury the pertater and never tell a living soul
where you buried it. You won't have no more warts. Mind you bury the
pertater, though. If you don't, and anyone picks it up, she'll get
CHAPTER XVIII. SARA RAY HELPS OUT
We all missed Aunt Olivia greatly; she had been so merry and
companionable, and had possessed such a knack of understanding small
fry. But youth quickly adapts itself to changed conditions; in a few
weeks it seemed as if the Story Girl had always been living at Uncle
Alec's, and as if Uncle Roger had always had a fat, jolly housekeeper
with a double chin and little, twinkling blue eyes. I don't think Aunt
Janet ever quite got over missing Aunt Olivia, or looked upon Mrs.
Hawkins as anything but a necessary evil; but life resumed its even
tenor on the King farm, broken only by the ripples of excitement over
the school concert and letters from Aunt Olivia describing her trip
through the land of Evangeline. We incorporated the letters in Our
Magazine under the heading "From Our Special Correspondent" and were
very proud of them.
At the end of June our school concert came off and was a great
event in our young lives. It was the first appearance of most of us on
any platform, and some of us were very nervous. We all had
recitations, except Dan, who had refused flatly to take any part and
was consequently care-free.
"I'm sure I shall die when I find myself up on that platform,
facing people," sighed Sara Ray, as we talked the affair over in Uncle
Stephen's Walk the night before the concert.
"I'm afraid I'll faint," was Cecily's more moderate foreboding.
"I'm not one single bit nervous," said Felicity complacently.
"I'm not nervous this time," said the Story Girl, "but the first
time I recited I was."
"My Aunt Jane," remarked Peter, "used to say that an old teacher of
hers told her that when she was going to recite or speak in public she
must just get it firmly into her mind that it was only a lot of cabbage
heads she had before her, and she wouldn't be nervous."
"One mightn't be nervous, but I don't think there would be much
inspiration in reciting to cabbage heads," said the Story Girl
decidedly. "I want to recite to PEOPLE, and see them looking
interested and thrilled."
"If I can only get through my piece without breaking down I don't
care whether I thrill people or not," said Sara Ray.
"I'm afraid I'll forget mine and get stuck," foreboded Felix.
"Some of you fellows be sure and prompt me if I do--and do it quick,
so's I won't get worse rattled."
"I know one thing," said Cecily resolutely, "and that is, I'm going
to curl my hair for to-morrow night. I've never curled it since Peter
almost died, but I simply must tomorrow night, for all the other girls
are going to have theirs in curls."
"The dew and heat will take all the curl out of yours and then
you'll look like a scarecrow," warned Felicity.
"No, I won't. I'm going to put my hair up in paper tonight and wet
it with a curling-fluid that Judy Pineau uses. Sara brought me up a
bottle of it. Judy says it is great stuff--your hair will keep in curl
for days, no matter how damp the weather is. I'll leave my hair in the
papers till tomorrow evening, and then I'll have beautiful curls."
"You'd better leave your hair alone," said Dan gruffly. "Smooth
hair is better than a lot of fly-away curls."
But Cecily was not to be persuaded. Curls she craved and curls she
meant to have.
"I'm thankful my warts have all gone, any-way," said Sara Ray.
"So they have," exclaimed Felicity. "Did you try Peg's recipe?"
"Yes. I didn't believe in it but I tried it. For the first few
days afterwards I kept watching my warts, but they didn't go away, and
then I gave up and forgot them. But one day last week I just happened
to look at my hands and there wasn't a wart to be seen. It was the
most amazing thing."
"And yet you'll say Peg Bowen isn't a witch," said Peter.
"Pshaw, it was just the potato juice," scoffed Dan.
"It was a dry old potato I had, and there wasn't much juice in it,"
said Sara Ray. "One hardly knows what to believe. But one thing is
certain--my warts are gone."
Cecily put her hair up in curl-papers that night, thoroughly soaked
in Judy Pineau's curling-fluid. It was a nasty job, for the fluid was
very sticky, but Cecily persevered and got it done. Then she went to
bed with a towel tied over her head to protect the pillow. She did not
sleep well and had uncanny dreams, but she came down to breakfast with
an expression of triumph. The Story Girl examined her head critically
"Cecily, if I were you I'd take those papers out this morning."
"Oh, no; if I do my hair will be straight again by night. I mean
to leave them in till the last minute."
"I wouldn't do that--I really wouldn't," persisted the Story Girl.
"If you do your hair will be too curly and all bushy and fuzzy."
Cecily finally yielded and went upstairs with the Story Girl.
Presently we heard a little shriek--then two little shrieks--then
three. Then Felicity came flying down and called her mother. Aunt
Janet went up and presently came down again with a grim mouth. She
filled a large pan with warm water and carried it upstairs. We dared
ask her no questions, but when Felicity came down to wash the dishes we
"What on earth is the matter with Cecily?" demanded Dan. "Is she
"No, she isn't. I warned her not to put her hair in curls but she
wouldn't listen to me. I guess she wishes she had now. When people
haven't natural curly hair they shouldn't try to make it curly. They
get punished if they do."
"Look here, Felicity, never mind all that. Just tell us what has
"Well, this is what has happened her. That ninny of a Sara Ray
brought up a bottle of mucilage instead of Judy's curling-fluid, and
Cecily put her hair up with THAT. It's in an awful state."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Dan. "Look here, will she ever get it
"Goodness knows. She's got her head in soak now. Her hair is just
matted together hard as a board. That's what comes of vanity," said
Felicity, than whom no vainer girl existed.
Poor Cecily paid dearly enough for HER vanity. She spent a bad
forenoon, made no easier by her mother's severe rebukes. For an hour
she "soaked" her head; that is, she stood over a panful of warm water
and kept dipping her head in with tightly shut eyes. Finally her hair
softened sufficiently to be disentangled from the curl papers; and then
Aunt Janet subjected it to a merciless shampoo. Eventually they got
all the mucilage washed out of it and Cecily spent the remainder of the
forenoon sitting before the open oven door in the hot kitchen drying
her ill-used tresses. She felt very down-hearted; her hair was of that
order which, glossy and smooth normally, is dry and harsh and
lustreless for several days after being shampooed.
"I'll look like a fright tonight," said the poor child to me with
trembling voice. "The ends will be sticking out all over my head."
"Sara Ray is a perfect idiot," I said wrathfully
"Qh, don't be hard on poor Sara. She didn't mean to bring me
mucilage. It's really all my own fault, I know. I made a solemn vow
when Peter was dying that I would never curl my hair again, and I
should have kept it. It isn't right to break solemn vows. But my hair
will look like dried hay tonight."
Poor Sara Ray was quite overwhelmed when she came up and found what
she had done. Felicity was very hard on her, and Aunt Janet was coldly
disapproving, but sweet Cecily forgave her unreservedly, and they
walked to the school that night with their arms about each other's
waists as usual.
The school-room was crowded with friends and neighbours. Mr.
Perkins was flying about, getting things into readiness, and Miss
Reade, who was the organist of the evening, was sitting on the
platform, looking her sweetest and prettiest. She wore a delightful
white lace hat with a fetching little wreath of tiny forget-me-nots
around the brim, a white muslin dress with sprays of blue violets
scattered over it, and a black lace scarf.
"Doesn't she look angelic?" said Cecily rapturously.
"Mind you," said Sara Ray, "the Awkward Man is here--in the corner
behind the door. I never remember seeing him at a concert before."
"I suppose he came to hear the Story Girl recite," said Felicity.
"He is such a friend of hers."
The concert went off very well. Dialogues, choruses and
recitations followed each other in rapid succession. Felix got through
his without "getting stuck," and Peter did excellently, though he
stuffed his hands in his trousers pockets--a habit of which Mr. Perkins
had vainly tried to break him. Peter's recitation was one greatly in
vogue at that time, beginning,
"My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks."
At our first practice Peter had started gaily in, rushing through
the first line with no thought whatever of punctuation--" My name is
Norval on the Grampian Hills."
"Stop, stop, Peter," quoth Mr. Perkins, sarcastically, "your name
might be Norval if you were never on the Grampian Hills. There's a
semi-colon in that line, I wish you to remember."
Peter did remember it. Cecily neither fainted nor failed when it
came her turn. She recited her little piece very well, though somewhat
mechanically. I think she really did much better than if she had had
her desired curls. The miserable conviction that her hair, alone among
that glossy-tressed bevy, was looking badly, quite blotted out all
nervousness and self-consciousness from her mind. Her hair apart, she
looked very pretty. The prevailing excitement had made bright her eye
and flushed her cheeks rosily-- too rosily, perhaps. I heard a
Carlisle woman behind me whisper that Cecily King looked consumptive,
just like her Aunt Felicity; and I hated her fiercely for it.
Sara Ray also managed to get through respectably, although she was
pitiably nervous. Her bow was naught but a short nod--"as if her head
worked on wires," whispered Felicity uncharitably--and the wave of her
lily-white hand more nearly resembled an agonized jerk than a wave. We
all felt relieved when she finished. She was, in a sense, one of "our
crowd," and we had been afraid she would disgrace us by breaking down.
Felicity followed her and recited her selection without haste,
without rest, and absolutely without any expression whatever. But what
mattered it how she recited? To look at her was sufficient. What with
her splendid fleece of golden curls, her great, brilliant blue eyes,
her exquisitely tinted face, her dimpled hands and arms, every member
of the audience must have felt it was worth the ten cents he had paid
merely to see her.
The Story Girl followed. An expectant silence fell over the room,
and Mr. Perkins' face lost the look of tense anxiety it had worn all
the evening. Here was a performer who could be depended on. No need
to fear stage fright or forgetfulness on her part. The Story Girl was
not looking her best that night. White never became her, and her face
was pale, though her eyes were splendid. But nobody thought about her
appearance when the power and magic of her voice caught and held her
Her recitation was an old one, figuring in one of the School
Readers, and we scholars all knew it off by heart. Sara Ray alone had
not heard the Story Girl recite it. The latter had not been drilled at
practices as had the other pupils, Mr. Perkins choosing not to waste
time teaching her what she already knew far better than he did. The
only time she had recited it had been at the "dress rehearsal" two
nights before, at which Sara Ray had not been present.
In the poem a Florentine lady of old time, wedded to a cold and
cruel husband, had died, or was supposed to have died, and had been
carried to "the rich, the beautiful, the dreadful tomb" of her proud
family. In the night she wakened from her trance and made her escape.
Chilled and terrified, she had made her way to her husband's door,
only to be driven away brutally as a restless ghost by the
horror-stricken inmates. A similar reception awaited her at her
father's. Then she had wandered blindly through the streets of
Florence until she had fallen exhausted at the door of the lover of her
girlhood. He, unafraid, had taken her in and cared for her. On the
morrow, the husband and father, having discovered the empty tomb, came
to claim her. She refused to return to them and the case was carried
to the court of law. The verdict given was that a woman who had been
"to burial borne" and left for dead, who had been driven from her
husband's door and from her childhood home, "must be adjudged as dead
in law and fact," was no more daughter or wife, but was set free to
form what new ties she would. The climax of the whole selection came
in the line,
"The court pronounces the defendant--DEAD!" and the Story Girl was
wont to render it with such dramatic intensity and power that the
veriest dullard among her listeners could not have missed its force and
She swept along through the poem royally, playing on the emotions
of her audience as she had so often played on ours in the old orchard.
Pity, terror, indignation, suspense, possessed her hearers in turn.
In the court scene she surpassed herself. She was, in very truth, the
Florentine judge, stern, stately, impassive. Her voice dropped into
the solemnity of the all- important line,
"'The court pronounces the defendant--'"
She paused for a breathless moment, the better to bring out the
tragic import of the last word.
"DEAD," piped up Sara Ray in her shrill, plaintive little voice.
The effect, to use a hackneyed but convenient phrase, can better be
imagined than described. Instead of the sigh of relieved tension that
should have swept over the audience at the conclusion of the line, a
burst of laughter greeted it. The Story Girl's performance was
completely spoiled. She dealt the luckless Sara a glance that would
have slain her on the spot could glances kill, stumbled lamely and
impotently through the few remaining lines of her recitation, and fled
with crimson cheeks to hide her mortification in the little corner that
had been curtained off for a dressing-room. Mr. Perkins looked things
not lawful to be uttered, and the audience tittered at intervals for
the rest of the performance.
Sara Ray alone remained serenely satisfied until the close of the
concert, when we surrounded her with a whirlwind of reproaches.
"Why," she stammered aghast, "what did I do? I--I thought she was
stuck and that I ought to prompt her quick."
"You little fool, she just paused for effect," cried Felicity
angrily. Felicity might be rather jealous of the Story Girl's gift,
but she was furious at beholding "one of our family" made ridiculous in
such a fashion. "You have less sense than anyone I ever heard of, Sara
Poor Sara dissolved in tears.
"I didn't know. I thought she was stuck," she wailed again.
She cried all the way home, but we did not try to comfort her. We
felt quite out of patience with her. Even Cecily was seriously
annoyed. This second blunder of Sara's was too much even for her
loyalty. We saw her turn in at her own gate and go sobbing up her lane
with no relenting.
The Story Girl was home before us, having fled from the schoolhouse
as soon as the programme was over. We tried to sympathize with her but
she would not be sympathized with.
"Please don't ever mention it to me again," she said, with
compressed lips. "I never want to be reminded of it. Oh, that little
"She spoiled Peter's sermon last summer and now she's spoiled your
recitation," said Felicity. "I think it's time we gave up associating
with Sara Ray."
"Oh, don't be quite so hard on her," pleaded Cecily. "Think of the
life the poor child has to live at home. I know she'll cry all night."
"Oh, let's go to bed," growled Dan. "I'm good and ready for it.
I've had enough of school concerts."
CHAPTER XIX. BY WAY OF THE STARS
But for two of us the adventures of the night were not yet over.
Silence settled down over the old house--the eerie, whisperful,
creeping silence of night. Felix and Dan were already sound asleep; I
was drifting near the coast o' dreams when I was aroused by a light tap
on the door.
"Bev, are you asleep?" came in the Story Girl's whisper.
"No, what is it?"
"S-s-h. Get up and dress and come out. I want you."
With a good deal of curiosity and some misgiving I obeyed. What
was in the wind now? Outside in the hall I found the Story Girl, with
a candle in her hand, and her hat and jacket.
"Where are you going?" I whispered in amazement.
"Hush. I've got to go to the school and you must come with me. I
left my coral necklace there. The clasp came loose and I was so afraid
I'd lose it that I took it off and put it in the bookcase. I was
feeling so upset when the concert was over that I forgot all about it."
The coral necklace was a very handsome one which had belonged to
the Story Girl's mother. She had never been permitted to wear it
before, and it had only been by dint of much coaxing that she had
induced Aunt Janet to let her wear it to the concert.
"But there's no sense in going for it in the dead of night," I
objected. "It will be quite safe. You can go for it in the morning."
"Lizzie Paxton and her daughter are going to clean the school
tomorrow, and I heard Lizzie say tonight she meant to be at it by five
o'clock to get through before the heat of the day. You know perfectly
well what Liz Paxton's reputation is. If she finds that necklace I'll
never see it again. Besides, if I wait till the morning, Aunt Janet
may find out that I left it there and she'd never let me wear it again.
No, I'm going for it now. If you're afraid," added the Story Girl
with delicate scorn, "of course you needn't come."
Afraid! I'd show her!
"Come on," I said.
We slipped out of the house noiselessly and found ourselves in the
unutterable solemnity and strangeness of a dark night. It was a new
experience, and our hearts thrilled and our nerves tingled to the charm
of it. Never had we been abroad before at such an hour. The world
around us was not the world of daylight. 'Twas an alien place, full of
weird, evasive enchantment and magicry.
Only in the country can one become truly acquainted with the night.
There it has the solemn calm of the infinite. The dim wide fields lie
in silence, wrapped in the holy mystery of darkness. A wind, loosened
from wild places far away, steals out to blow over dewy, star-lit,
immemorial hills. The air in the pastures is sweet with the hush of
dreams, and one may rest here like a child on its mother's breast.
"Isn't it wonderful?" breathed the Story Girl as we went down the
long hill. "Do you know, I can forgive Sara Ray now. I thought
tonight I never could--but now it doesn't matter any more. I can even
see how funny it was. Oh, wasn't it funny? 'DEAD' in that squeaky
little voice of Sara's! I'll just behave to her tomorrow as if nothing
had happened. It seems so long ago now, here in the night."
Neither of us ever forgot the subtle delight of that stolen walk.
A spell of glamour was over us. The breezes whispered strange secrets
of elf-haunted glens, and the hollows where the ferns grew were brimmed
with mystery and romance. Ghostlike scents crept out of the meadows to
meet us, and the fir wood before we came to the church was a living
sweetness of Junebells growing in abundance.
Junebells have another and more scientific name, of course. But
who could desire a better name than Junebells? They are so perfect in
their way that they seem to epitomize the very scent and charm of the
forest, as if the old wood's daintiest thoughts had materialized in
blossom; and not all the roses by Bendameer's stream are as fragrant as
a shallow sheet of Junebells under the boughs of fir.
There were fireflies abroad that night, too, increasing the
gramarye of it. There is certainly something a little supernatural
about fireflies. Nobody pretends to understand them. They are akin to
the tribes of fairy, survivals of the elder time when the woods and
hills swarmed with the little green folk. It is still very easy to
believe in fairies when you see those goblin lanterns glimmering among
the fir tassels.
"Isn't it beautiful?" said the Story Girl in rapture. "I wouldn't
have missed it for anything. I'm glad I left my necklace. And I am
glad you are with me, Bev. The others wouldn't understand so well. I
like you because I don't have to talk to you all the time. It's so
nice to walk with someone you don't have to talk to. Here is the
graveyard. Are you frightened to pass it, Bev?"
"No, I don't think I'm frightened," I answered slowly, "but I have
a queer feeling."
"So have I. But it isn't fear. I don't know what it is. I feel
as if something was reaching out of the graveyard to hold me--
something that wanted life--I don't like it--let's hurry. But isn't it
strange to think of all the dead people in there who were once alive
like you and me. I don't feel as if I could EVER die. Do you?"
"No, but everybody must. Of course we go on living afterwards,
just the same. Don't let's talk of such things here," I said
When we reached the school I contrived to open a window. We
scrambled in, lighted a lamp and found the missing necklace. The Story
Girl stood on the platform and gave an imitation of the catastrophe of
the evening that made me shout with laughter. We prowled around for
sheer delight over being there at an unearthly hour when everybody
supposed we were sound asleep in our beds. It was with regret that we
left, and we walked home as slowly as we could to prolong the
"Let's never tell anyone," said the Story Girl, as we reached home.
"Let's just have it as a secret between us for ever and
ever--something that nobody else knows a thing about but you and me."
"We'd better keep it a secret from Aunt Janet anyhow," I whispered,
laughing. "She'd think we were both crazy."
"It's real jolly to be crazy once in a while," said the Story Girl.
CHAPTER XX. EXTRACTS FROM OUR
As will be seen there is no Honour Roll in this number. Even
Felicity has thought all the beautiful thoughts that can be thought and
cannot think any more. Peter has never got drunk but, under existing
circumstances, that is not greatly to his credit. As for our written
resolutions they have silently disappeared from our chamber walls and
the place that once knew them knows them no more for ever. (PETER,
PERPLEXEDLY: "Seems to me I've heard something like that before.") It
is very sad but we will all make some new resolutions next year and
maybe it will be easier to keep those.
THE STORY OF THE LOCKET THAT WAS BAKED
This was a story my Aunt Jane told me about her granma when she was
a little girl. Its funny to think of baking a locket, but it wasn't to
eat. She was my great granma but Ill call her granma for short. It
happened when she was ten years old. Of course she wasent anybodys
granma then. Her father and mother and her were living in a new
settlement called Brinsley. Their nearest naybor was a mile away. One
day her Aunt Hannah from Charlottetown came and wanted her ma to go
visiting with her. At first granma's ma thought she couldent go
because it was baking day and granma's pa was away. But granma wasent
afraid to stay alone and she knew how to bake the bread so she made her
ma go and her Aunt Hannah took off the handsome gold locket and chain
she was waring round her neck and hung it on granmas and told her she
could ware it all day. Granma was awful pleased for she had never had
any jewelry. She did all the chores and then was needing the loaves
when she looked up and saw a tramp coming in and he was an awful
villenus looking tramp. He dident even pass the time of day but just
set down on a chair. Poor granma was awful fritened and she turned her
back on him and went on needing the loaf cold and trembling-- that is,
granma was trembling not the loaf. She was worried about the locket.
She didn't know how she could hide it for to get anywhere she would
have to turn round and pass him.
All of a suddent she thought she would hide it in the bread. She
put her hand up and pulled it hard and quick and broke the fastening
and needed it right into the loaf. Then she put the loaf in the pan
and set it in the oven.
The tramp hadent seen her do it and then he asked for something to
eat. Granma got him up a meal and when hed et it he began prowling
about the kitchen looking into everything and opening the cubbord
doors. Then he went into granma's mas room and turned the buro drawers
and trunk inside out and threw the things in them all about. All he
found was a purse with a dollar in it and he swore about it and took it
and went away. When granma was sure he was really gone she broke down
and cried. She forgot all about the bread and it burned as black as
coal. When she smelled it burning granma run and pulled it out. She
was awful scared the locket was spoiled but she sawed open the loaf and
it was there safe and sound. When her Aunt Hannah came back she said
granma deserved the locket because she had saved it so clever and she
gave it to her and grandma always wore it and was very proud of it.
And granma used to say that was the only loaf of bread she ever
spoiled in her life.
(FELICITY: "Those stories are all very well but they are only true
stories. It's easy enough to write true stories. I thought Peter was
appointed fiction editor, but he has never written any fiction since
the paper started. That's not MY idea of a fiction editor. He ought
to make up stories out of his own head." PETER, SPUNKILY: "I can do
it, too, and I will next time. And it ain't easier to write true
stories. It's harder, 'cause you have to stick to facts." FELICITY:
"I don't believe you could make up a story." PETER: "I'll show
MY MOST EXCITING ADVENTURE
It's my turn to write it but I'm SO NERVOUS. My worst adventure
happened TWO YEARS AGO. It was an awful one. I had a striped ribbon,
striped brown and yellow and I LOST IT. I was very sorry for it was a
handsome ribbon and all the girls in school were jealous of it.
(FELICITY: "I wasn't. I didn't think it one bit pretty." CECILY:
"Hush!") I hunted everywhere but I couldn't find it. Next day was
Sunday and I was running into the house by the front door and I saw
SOMETHING LYING ON THE STEP and I thought it was my ribbon and I made a
grab at it as I passed. But, oh, it was A SNAKE! Oh, I can never
describe how I felt when I felt that awful thing WRIGGLING IN MY HAND.
I let it go and SCREAMED AND SCREAMED, and ma was cross at me for
yelling on Sunday and made me read seven chapters in the Bible but I
didn't mind that much after what I had come through. I would rather
DIE than have SUCH AN EXPERIENCE again.
TO FELICITY ON HER BERTHDAY
Oh maiden fair with golden hair
And brow of purest white,
Id fight for you I'd die for you
Let me be your faithful knite.
This is your berthday blessed day
You are thirteen years old today
May you be happy and fair as you are now
Until your hair is gray.
I gaze into your shining eyes,
They are so blue and bright.
Id fight for you Id die for you
Let me be your faithful knite.
(DAN: "Great snakes, who got that up? I'll bet it was Peter."
FELICITY, WITH DIGNITY: "Well, it's more than YOU could do. YOU
couldn't write poetry to save your life." PETER, ASIDE TO BEVERLEY:
"She seems quite pleased. I'm glad I wrote it, but it was awful hard
Patrick Grayfur, Esq., caused his friends great anxiety recently by
a prolonged absence from home. When found he was very thin but is now
as fat and conceited as ever.
On Wednesday, June 20th, Miss Olivia King was united in the bonds
of holy matrimony to Dr. Robert Seton of Halifax. Miss Sara Stanley
was bridesmaid, and Mr. Andrew Seton attended the groom. The young
couple received many handsome presents. Rev. Mr. Marwood tied the
nuptial knot. After the ceremony a substantial repast was served in
Mrs. Alex King's well-known style and the happy couple left for their
new home in Nova Scotia. Their many friends join in wishing them a
very happy and prosperous journey through life.
A precious one from us is gone,
A voice we loved is stilled.
A place is vacant in our home
That never can be filled.
(THE STORY GIRL: "Goodness, that sounds as if somebody had died.
I've seen that verse on a tombstone. WHO wrote that notice?"
FELICITY, WHO WROTE IT: "I think it is just as appropriate to a
wedding as to a funeral!")
Our school concert came off on the evening of June 29th and was a
great success. We made ten dollars for the library.
We regret to chronicle that Miss Sara Ray met with a misfortune
while taking some violent exercise with a wasps' nest recently. The
moral is that it is better not to monkey with a wasps' nest, new or
Mrs. C. B. Hawkins of Baywater is keeping house for Uncle Roger.
She is a very large woman. Uncle Roger says he has to spend too much
time walking round her, but otherwise she is an excellent housekeeper.
It is reported that the school is haunted. A mysterious light was
seen there at two o'clock one night recently.
(THE STORY GIRL AND I EXCHANGE KNOWING SMILES BEHIND THE OTHERS'
Dan and Felicity had a fight last Tuesday--not with fists but with
tongues. Dan came off best--as usual. (FELICITY LAUGHS
Mr. Newton Craig of Markdale returned home recently after a
somewhat prolonged visit in foreign parts. We are glad to welcome Mr.
Craig back to our midst.
Billy Robinson was hurt last week. A cow kicked him. I suppose it
is wicked of us to feel glad but we all do feel glad because of the way
he cheated us with the magic seed last summer.
On April 1st Uncle Roger sent Mr. Peter Craig to the manse to
borrow the biography of Adam's grandfather. Mr. Marwood told Peter he
didn't think Adam had any grandfather and advised him to go home and
look at the almanac. (PETER, SOURLY: "Your Uncle Roger thought he was
pretty smart." FELICITY, SEVERELY: "Uncle Roger IS smart. It was so
easy to fool you.")
A pair of blue birds have built a nest in a hole in the sides of
the well, just under the ferns. We can see the eggs when we look down.
They are so cunning.
Felix sat down on a tack one day in May. Felix thinks house-
cleaning is great foolishness.
LOST--STOLEN--OR STRAYED--A HEART. Finder will be rewarded by
returning same to Cyrus E. Brisk, Desk 7, Carlisle School.
LOST OR STOLEN. A piece of brown hair about three inches long and
one inch thick. Finder will kindly return to Miss Cecily King, Desk
15, Carlisle School.
(CECILY: "Cyrus keeps my hair in his Bible for a bookmark, so
Flossie tells me. He says he means to keep it always for a remembrance
though he has given up hope." DAN: "I'll steal it out of his Bible in
Sunday School." CECILY, BLUSHING: "Oh, let him keep it if it is any
comfort to him. Besides, it isn't right to steal." DAN: "He stole
it." CECILY: "But Mr. Marwood says two wrongs never make a right.")
Aunt Olivia's wedding cake was said to be the best one of its kind
ever tasted in Carlisle. Me and mother made it.
ANXIOUS INQUIRER:--It is not advisable to curl your hair with
mucilage if you can get anything else. Quince juice is better.
(CECILY, BITTERLY: "I suppose I'll never hear the last of that
mucilage." DAN: "Ask her who used tooth-powder to raise biscuits?")
We had rhubarb pies for the first time this spring last week. They
were fine but hard on the cream.
PATIENT SUFFERER:--What will I do when a young man steals a lock of
my hair? Ans.:--Grow some more.
No, F-l-x, a little caterpillar is not called a kittenpillar.
(FELIX, ENRAGED: "I never asked that! Dan just makes that etiquette
column up from beginning to end!" FELICITY: "I don't see what that
kind of a question has to do with etiquette anyhow.")
Yes, P-t-r, it is quite proper to treat a lady friend to ice cream
twice if you can afford it.
No, F-l-c-t-y, it is not ladylike to chew tobacco. Better stick to
Frilled muslin aprons will be much worn this summer. It is no
longer fashionable to trim them with knitted lace. One pocket is
Clam-shells are fashionable keepsakes. You write your name and the
date inside one and your friend writes hers in the other and you
MR. PERKINS:--"Peter, name the large islands of the world."
PETER:--"The Island, the British Isles and Australia." (PETER,
DEFIANTLY: "Well, Mr. Perkins said he guessed I was right, so you
This is a true joke and really happened. It's about Mr. Samuel
Clask again. He was once leading a prayer meeting and he looked
through the window and saw the constable driving up and guessed he was
after him because he was always in debt. So in a great hurry he called
on Brother Casey to lead in prayer and while Brother Casey was praying
with his eyes shut and everybody else had their heads bowed Mr. Clask
got out of the window and got away before the constable got in because
he didn't like to come in till the prayer was finished.
Uncle Roger says it was a smart trick on Mr. Clask's part, but I
don't think there was much religion about it.
CHAPTER XXI. PEG BOWEN COMES TO
When those of us who are still left of that band of children who
played long years ago in the old orchard and walked the golden road
together in joyous companionship, foregather now and again in our busy
lives and talk over the events of those many merry moons-- there are
some of our adventures that gleam out more vividly in memory than the
others, and are oftener discussed. The time we bought God's picture
from Jerry Cowan--the time Dan ate the poison berries--the time we
heard the ghostly bell ring--the bewitchment of Paddy--the visit of the
Governor's wife--and the night we were lost in the storm--all awaken
reminiscent jest and laughter; but none more than the recollection of
the Sunday Peg Bowen came to church and sat in our pew. Though
goodness knows, as Felicity would say, we did not think it any matter
for laughter at the time--far from it.
It was one Sunday evening in July. Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet,
having been out to the morning service, did not attend in the evening,
and we small fry walked together down the long hill road, wearing
Sunday attire and trying, more or less successfully, to wear Sunday
faces also. Those walks to church, through the golden completeness of
the summer evenings, were always very pleasant to us, and we never
hurried, though, on the other hand, we were very careful not to be
This particular evening was particularly beautiful. It was cool
after a hot day, and wheat fields all about us were ripening to their
harvestry. The wind gossiped with the grasses along our way, and over
them the buttercups danced, goldenly-glad. Waves of sinuous shadow
went over the ripe hayfields, and plundering bees sang a freebooting
lilt in wayside gardens.
"The world is so lovely tonight," said the Story Girl. "I just
hate the thought of going into the church and shutting all the sunlight
and music outside. I wish we could have the service outside in
"I don't think that would be very religious," said Felicity.
"I'd feel ever so much more religious outside than in," retorted
the Story Girl.
"If the service was outside we'd have to sit in the graveyard and
that wouldn't be very cheerful," said Felix.
"Besides, the music isn't shut out," added Felicity. "The choir is
"'Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,'" quoted Peter, who
was getting into the habit of adorning his conversation with similar
gems. "That's in one of Shakespeare's plays. I'm reading them now,
since I got through with the Bible. They're great."
"I don't see when you get time to read them," said Felicity.
"Oh, I read them Sunday afternoons when I'm home."
"I don't believe they're fit to read on Sundays," exclaimed
Felicity. "Mother says Valeria Montague's stories ain't."
"But Shakespeare's different from Valeria," protested Peter.
"I don't see in what way. He wrote a lot of things that weren't
true, just like Valeria, and he wrote swear words too. Valeria never
does that. Her characters all talk in a very refined fashion."
"Well, I always skip the swear words," said Peter. "And Mr.
Marwood said once that the Bible and Shakespeare would furnish any
library well. So you see he put them together, but I'm sure that he
would never say that the Bible and Valeria would make a library."
"Well, all I know is, I shall never read Shakespeare on Sunday,"
said Felicity loftily.
"I wonder what kind of a preacher young Mr. Davidson is,"
"Well, we'll know when we hear him tonight," said the Story Girl.
"He ought to be good, for his uncle before him was a fine preacher,
though a very absent-minded man. But Uncle Roger says the supply in
Mr. Marwood's vacation never amounts to much. I know an awfully funny
story about old Mr. Davidson. He used to be the minister in Baywater,
you know, and he had a large family and his children were very
mischievous. One day his wife was ironing and she ironed a great big
nightcap with a frill round it. One of the children took it when she
wasn't looking and hid it in his father's best beaver hat--the one he
wore on Sundays. When Mr. Davidson went to church next Sunday he put
the hat on without ever looking into the crown. He walked to church in
a brown study and at the door he took off his hat. The nightcap just
slipped down on his head, as if it had been put on, and the frill stood
out around his face and the string hung down his back. But he never
noticed it, because his thoughts were far away, and he walked up the
church aisle and into the pulpit, like that. One of his elders had to
tiptoe up and tell him what he had on his head. He plucked it off in a
dazed fashion, held it up, and looked at it. 'Bless me, it is Sally's
nightcap!' he exclaimed mildly. 'I do not know how I could have got it
on.' Then he just stuffed it into his pocket calmly and went on with
the service, and the long strings of the nightcap hung down out of his
pocket all the time."
"It seems to me," said Peter, amid the laughter with which we
greeted the tale, "that a funny story is funnier when it is about a
minister than it is about any other man. I wonder why."
"Sometimes I don't think it is right to tell funny stories about
ministers," said Felicity. "It certainly isn't respectful."
"A good story is a good story--no matter who it's about," said the
Story Girl with ungrammatical relish.
There was as yet no one in the church when we reached it, so we
took our accustomed ramble through the graveyard surrounding it. The
Story Girl had brought flowers for her mother's grave as usual, and
while she arranged them on it the rest of us read for the hundredth
time the epitaph on Great-Grandfather King's tombstone, which had been
composed by Great-Grandmother King. That epitaph was quite famous
among the little family traditions that entwine every household with
mingled mirth and sorrow, smiles and tears. It had a perennial
fascination for us and we read it over every Sunday. Cut deeply in the
upright slab of red Island sandstone, the epitaph ran as follows:--
SWEET DEPARTED SPIRIT
Do receive the vows a grateful widow pays, Each future day and
night shall hear her speak her Isaac's praise. Though thy beloved form
must in the grave decay Yet from her heart thy memory no time, no
change shall steal away. Do thou from mansions of eternal bliss
Remember thy distressed relict. Look on her with an angel's love--
Soothe her sad life and cheer her end Through this world's dangers and
its griefs. Then meet her with thy well-known smiles and welcome At the
last great day.
"Well, I can't make out what the old lady was driving at," said
"That's a nice way to speak of your great-grandmother," said
"How does The Family Guide say you ought to speak of your great-
grandma, sweet one?" asked Dan.
"There is one thing about it that puzzles me," remarked Cecily.
"She calls herself a GRATEFUL widow. Now, what was she grateful for?"
"Because she was rid of him at last," said graceless Dan.
"Oh, it couldn't have been that," protested Cecily seriously.
"I've always heard that Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother were
very much attached to each other."
"Maybe, then, it means she was grateful that she'd had him as long
as she did," suggested Peter.
"She was grateful to him because he had been so kind to her in
life, I think," said Felicity.
"What is a 'distressed relict'?" asked Felix.
"'Relict' is a word I hate," said the Story Girl. "It sounds so
much like relic. Relict means just the same as widow, only a man can
be a relict, too."
"Great-Grandmother seemed to run short of rhymes at the last of the
epitaph," commented Dan.
"Finding rhymes isn't as easy as you might think," avowed Peter,
out of his own experience.
"I think Grandmother King intended the last of the epitaph to be in
blank verse," said Felicity with dignity.
There was still only a sprinkling of people in the church when we
went in and took our places in the old-fashioned, square King pew. We
had just got comfortably settled when Felicity said in an agitated
whisper, "Here is Peg Bowen!"
We all stared at Peg, who was pacing composedly up the aisle. We
might be excused for so doing, for seldom were the decorous aisles of
Carlisle church invaded by such a figure. Peg was dressed in her usual
short drugget skirt, rather worn and frayed around the bottom, and a
waist of brilliant turkey red calico. She wore no hat, and her
grizzled black hair streamed in elf locks over her shoulders. Face,
arms and feet were bare--and face, arms and feet were liberally
powdered with FLOUR. Certainly no one who saw Peg that night could
ever forget the apparition.
Peg's black eyes, in which shone a more than usually wild and
fitful light, roved scrutinizingly over the church, then settled on our
"She's coming here," whispered Felicity in horror. "Can't we
spread out and make her think the pew is full?"
But the manoeuvre was too late. The only result was that Felicity
and the Story Girl in moving over left a vacant space between them and
Peg promptly plumped down in it.
"Well, I'm here," she remarked aloud. "I did say once I'd never
darken the door of Carlisle church again, but what that boy
there"--nodding at Peter--"said last winter set me thinking, and I
concluded maybe I'd better come once in a while, to be on the safe
Those poor girls were in an agony. Everybody in the church was
looking at our pew and smiling. We all felt that we were terribly
disgraced; but we could do nothing. Peg was enjoying herself hugely,
beyond all doubt. From where she sat she could see the whole church,
including pulpit and gallery, and her black eyes darted over it with
"Bless me, there's Sam Kinnaird," she exclaimed, still aloud.
"He's the man that dunned Jacob Marr for four cents on the church
steps one Sunday. I heard him. 'I think, Jacob, you owe me four cents
on that cow you bought last fall. Rec'llect you couldn't make the
change?' Well, you know, 'twould a-made a cat laugh. The Kinnairds
were all mighty close, I can tell you. That's how they got rich."
What Sam Kinnaird felt or thought during this speech, which
everyone in the church must have heard, I know not. Gossip had it that
he changed colour. We wretched occupants of the King pew were
concerned only with our own outraged feelings.
"And there's Melita Ross," went on Peg. "She's got the same bonnet
on she had last time I was in Carlisle church six years ago. Some
folks has the knack of making things last. But look at the style Mrs.
Elmer Brewer wears, will yez? Yez wouldn't think her mother died in
the poor-house, would yez, now?"
Poor Mrs. Brewer! From the tip of her smart kid shoes to the
dainty cluster of ostrich tips in her bonnet--she was most immaculately
and handsomely arrayed; but I venture to think she could have taken
small pleasure in her fashionable attire that evening. Some of the
unregenerate, including Dan, were shaking with suppressed laughter, but
most of the people looked as if they were afraid to smile, lest their
turn should come next.
"There's old Stephen Grant coming in," exclaimed Peg viciously,
shaking her floury fist at him, "and looking as if butter wouldn't melt
in his mouth. He may be an elder, but he's a scoundrel just the same.
He set fire to his house to get the insurance and then blamed ME for
doing it. But I got even with him for it. Oh, yes! He knows that, and
so do I! He, he!"
Peg chuckled quite fiendishly and Stephen Grant tried to look as if
nothing had been said.
"Oh, will the minister never come?" moaned Felicity in my ear.
"Surely she'll have to stop then."
But the minister did not come and Peg had no intention of stopping.
"There's Maria Dean." she resumed. "I haven't seen Maria for
years. I never call there for she never seems to have anything to eat
in the house. She was a Clayton and the Claytons never could cook.
Maria sorter looks as if she'd shrunk in the wash, now, don't she?
And there's Douglas Nicholson. His brother put rat poison in the
family pancakes. Nice little trick that, wasn't it? They say it was by
mistake. I hope it WAS a mistake. His wife is all rigged out in silk.
Yez wouldn't think to look at her she was married in cotton--and
mighty thankful to get married in anything, it's my opinion. There's
Timothy Patterson. He's the meanest man alive--meaner'n Sam Kinnaird
even. Timothy pays his children five cents apiece to go without their
suppers, and then steals the cents out of their pockets after they've
gone to bed. It's a fact. And when his old father died he wouldn't
let his wife put his best shirt on him. He said his second best was
plenty good to be buried in. That's another fact."
"I can't stand much more of this," wailed Felicity.
"See here, Miss Bowen, you really oughtn't to talk like that about
people," expostulated Peter in a low tone, goaded thereto, despite his
awe of Peg, by Felicity's anguish.
"Bless you, boy," said Peg good-humouredly, "the only difference
between me and other folks is that I say these things out loud and they
just think them. If I told yez all the things I know about the people
in this congregation you'd be amazed. Have a peppermint?"
To our horror Peg produced a handful of peppermint lozenges from
the pocket of her skirt and offered us one each. We did not dare
refuse but we each held our lozenge very gingerly in our hands.
"Eat them," commanded Peg rather fiercely.
"Mother doesn't allow us to eat candy in church," faltered
"Well, I've seen just as fine ladies as your ma give their children
lozenges in church," said Peg loftily. She put a peppermint in her own
mouth and sucked it with gusto. We were relieved, for she did not talk
during the process; but our relief was of short duration. A bevy of
three very smartly dressed young ladies, sweeping past our pew, started
Peg off again.
"Yez needn't be so stuck up," she said, loudly and derisively.
"Yez was all of yez rocked in a flour barrel. And there's old Henry
Frewen, still above ground. I called my parrot after him because their
noses were exactly alike. Look at Caroline Marr, will yez? That's a
woman who'd like pretty well to get married, And there's Alexander
Marr. He's a real Christian, anyhow, and so's his dog. I can always
size up what a man's religion amounts to by the kind of dog he keeps.
Alexander Marr is a good man."
It was a relief to hear Peg speak well of somebody; but that was
the only exception she made.
"Look at Dave Fraser strutting in," she went on. "That man has
thanked God so often that he isn't like other people that it's come to
be true. He isn't! And there's Susan Frewen. She's jealous of
everybody. She's even jealous of Old Man Rogers because he's buried in
the best spot in the graveyard. Seth Erskine has the same look he was
born with. They say the Lord made everybody but I believe the devil
made all the Erskines."
"She's getting worse all the time. What WILL she say next?"
whispered poor Felicity.
But her martyrdom was over at last. The minister appeared in the
pulpit and Peg subsided into silence. She folded her bare, floury arms
over her breast and fastened her black eyes on the young preacher. Her
behaviour for the next half-hour was decorum itself, save that when the
minister prayed that we might all be charitable in judgment Peg
ejaculated "Amen" several times, loudly and forcibly, somewhat to the
discomfiture of the Young man, to whom Peg was a stranger. He opened
his eyes, glanced at our pew in a startled way, then collected himself
and went on.
Peg listened to the sermon, silently and motionlessly, until Mr.
Davidson was half through. Then she suddenly got on her feet.
"This is too dull for me," she exclaimed. "I want something more
Mr. Davidson stopped short and Peg marched down the aisle in the
midst of complete silence. Half way down the aisle she turned around
and faced the minister.
"There are so many hypocrites in this church that it isn't fit for
decent people to come to," she said. "Rather than be such hypocrites
as most of you are it would be better for you to go miles into the
woods and commit suicide."
Wheeling about, she strode to the door. Then she turned for a
"I've felt kind of worried for God sometimes, seeing He has so much
to attend to," she said, "but I see I needn't be, so long's there's
plenty of ministers to tell Him what to do."
With that Peg shook the dust of Carlisle church from her feet.
Poor Mr. Davidson resumed his discourse. Old Elder Bayley, whose
attention an earthquake could not have distracted from the sermon,
afterwards declared that it was an excellent and edifying exhortation,
but I doubt if anyone else in Carlisle church tasted it much or gained
much good therefrom. Certainly we of the King household did not. We
could not even remember the text when we reached home. Felicity was
"Mr. Davidson would be sure to think she belonged to our family
when she was in our pew," she said bitterly. "Oh, I feel as if I could
never get over such a mortification! Peter, I do wish you wouldn't go
telling people they ought to go to church. It's all your fault that
"Never mind, it will be a good story to tell sometime," remarked
the Story Girl with relish.
CHAPTER XXII. THE YANKEE STORM
In an August orchard six children and a grown-up were sitting
around the pulpit stone. The grown-up was Miss Reade, who had been up
to give the girls their music lesson and had consented to stay to tea,
much to the rapture of the said girls, who continued to worship her
with unabated and romantic ardour. To us, over the golden grasses,
came the Story Girl, carrying in her hand a single large poppy, like a
blood-red chalice filled with the wine of August wizardry. She
proffered it to Miss Reade and, as the latter took it into her
singularly slender, beautiful hand, I saw a ring on her third finger.
I noticed it, because I had heard the girls say that Miss Reade never
wore rings, not liking them. It was not a new ring; it was handsome,
but of an old-fashioned design and setting, with a glint of diamonds
about a central sapphire. Later on, when Miss Reade had gone, I asked
the Story Girl if she had noticed the ring. She nodded, but seemed
disinclined to say more about it.
"Look here, Sara," I said, "there's something about that ring--
something you know."
"I told you once there was a story growing but you would have to
wait until it was fully grown," she answered.
"Is Miss Reade going to marry anybody--anybody we know?" I
"Curiosity killed a cat," observed the Story Girl coolly. "Miss
Reade hasn't told me that she was going to marry anybody. You will
find out all that is good for you to know in due time."
When the Story Girl put on grown-up airs I did not like her so
well, and I dropped the subject with a dignity that seemed to amuse her
She had been away for a week, visiting cousins in Markdale, and she
had come home with a new treasure-trove of stories, most of which she
had heard from the old sailors of Markdale Harbour. She had promised
that morning to tell us of "the most tragic event that had ever been
known on the north shore," and we now reminded her of her promise.
"Some call it the 'Yankee Storm,' and others the 'American Gale,'"
she began, sitting down by Miss Reade and beaming, because the latter
put her arm around her waist. "It happened nearly forty years ago, in
October of 1851. Old Mr. Coles at the Harbour told me all about it. He
was a young man then and he says he can never forget that dreadful
time. You know in those days hundreds of American fishing schooners
used to come down to the Gulf every summer to fish mackerel. On one
beautiful Saturday night in this October of 1851, more than one hundred
of these vessels could be counted from Markdale Capes. By Monday night
more than seventy of them had been destroyed. Those which had escaped
were mostly those which went into harbour Saturday night, to keep
Sunday. Mr. Coles says the rest stayed outside and fished all day
Sunday, same as through the week, and HE says the storm was a judgment
on them for doing it. But he admits that even some of them got into
harbour later on and escaped, so it's hard to know what to think. But
it is certain that on Sunday night there came up a sudden and terrible
storm--the worst, Mr. Coles says, that has ever been known on the north
shore. It lasted for two days and scores of vessels were driven ashore
and completely wrecked. The crews of most of the vessels that went
ashore on the sand beaches were saved, but those that struck on the
rocks went to pieces and all hands were lost. For weeks after the
storm the north shore was strewn with the bodies of drowned men. Think
of it! Many of them were unknown and unrecognizable, and they were
buried in Markdale graveyard. Mr. Coles says the schoolmaster who was
in Markdale then wrote a poem on the storm and Mr. Coles recited the
first two verses to me.
"'Here are the fishers' hillside graves,
The church beside, the woods around,
Below, the hollow moaning waves
Where the poor fishermen were drowned.
"'A sudden tempest the blue welkin tore,
The seamen tossed and torn apart
Rolled with the seaweed to the shore
While landsmen gazed with aching heart.'
"Mr. Coles couldn't remember any more of it. But the saddest of
all the stories of the Yankee Storm was the one about the Franklin
Dexter. The Franklin Dexter went ashore on the Markdale Capes and all
on board perished, the Captain and three of his brothers among them.
These four young men were the sons of an old man who lived in
Portland, Maine, and when he heard what had happened he came right down
to the Island to see if he could find their bodies. They had all come
ashore and had been buried in Markdale graveyard; but he was determined
to take them up and carry them home for burial. He said he had
promised their mother to take her boys home to her and he must do it.
So they were taken up and put on board a sailing vessel at Markdale
Harbour to be taken back to Maine, while the father himself went home
on a passenger steamer. The name of the sailing vessel was the Seth
Hall, and the captain's name was Seth Hall, too. Captain Hall was a
dreadfully profane man and used to swear blood-curdling oaths. On the
night he sailed out of Markdale Harbour the old sailors warned him that
a storm was brewing and that it would catch him if he did not wait
until it was over. The captain had become very impatient because of
several delays he had already met with, and he was in a furious temper.
He swore a wicked oath that he would sail out of Markdale Harbour that
night and 'God Almighty Himself shouldn't catch him.' He did sail out
of the harbour; and the storm did catch him, and the Seth Hall went
down with all hands, the dead and the living finding a watery grave
together. So the poor old mother up in Maine never had her boys
brought back to her after all. Mr. Coles says it seems as if it were
foreordained that they should not rest in a grave, but should lie
beneath the waves until the day when the sea gives up its dead."
"'They sleep as well beneath that purple tide
As others under turf,'"
quoted Miss Reade softly. "I am very thankful," she added. "that
I am not one of those whose dear ones 'go down to the sea in ships.' It
seems to me that they have treble their share of this world's
"Uncle Stephen was a sailor and he was drowned," said Felicity,
"and they say it broke Grandmother King's heart. I don't see why
people can't be contented on dry land."
Cecily's tears had been dropping on the autograph quilt square she
was faithfully embroidering. She had been diligently collecting names
for it ever since the preceding autumn and had a goodly number; but
Kitty Marr had one more and this was certainly a fly in Cecily's
"Besides, one I've got isn't paid for--Peg Bowen's," she lamented,
"and I don't suppose it ever will be, for I'll never dare to ask her
"I wouldn't put it on at all," said Felicity.
"Oh, I don't dare not to. She'd be sure to find out I didn't and
then she'd be very angry. I wish I could get just one more name and
then I'd be contented. But I don't know of a single person who hasn't
been asked already."
"Except Mr. Campbell," said Dan.
"Oh, of course nobody would ask Mr. Campbell. We all know it would
be of no use. He doesn't believe in missions at all--in fact, he says
he detests the very mention of missions--and he never gives one cent to
"All the same, I think he ought to be asked, so that he wouldn't
have the excuse that nobody DID ask him," declared Dan.
"Do you really think so, Dan?" asked Cecily earnestly.
"Sure," said Dan, solemnly. Dan liked to tease even Cecily a wee
bit now and then.
Cecily relapsed into anxious thought, and care sat visibly on her
brow for the rest of the day. Next morning she came to me and said:
"Bev, would you like to go for a walk with me this afternoon?"
"Of course," I replied. "Any particular where?"
"I'm going to see Mr. Campbell and ask him for his name for my
square," said Cecily resolutely. "I don't suppose it will do any good.
He wouldn't give anything to the library last summer, you remember,
till the Story Girl told him that story about his grandmother. She
won't go with me this time--I don't know why. I can't tell a story and
I'm frightened to death just to think of going to him. But I believe
it is my duty; and besides I would love to get as many names on my
square as Kitty Marr has. So if you'll go with me we'll go this
afternoon. I simply COULDN'T go alone."
CHAPTER XXIII. A MISSIONARY HEROINE
Accordingly, that afternoon we bearded the lion in his den. The
road we took was a beautiful one, for we went "cross lots," and we
enjoyed it, in spite of the fact that we did not expect the interview
with Mr. Campbell to be a very pleasant one. To be sure, he had been
quite civil on the occasion of our last call upon him, but the Story
Girl had been with us then and had beguiled him into good-humour and
generosity by the magic of her voice and personality. We had no such
ally now, and Mr. Campbell was known to be virulently opposed to
missions in any shape or form.
"I don't know whether it would have been any better if I could have
put on my good clothes," said Cecily, with a rueful glance at her print
dress, which, though neat and clean, was undeniably faded and RATHER
short and tight. "The Story Girl said it would, and I wanted to, but
mother wouldn't let me. She said it was all nonsense, and Mr. Campbell
would never notice what I had on."
"It's my opinion that Mr. Campbell notices a good deal more than
you'd think for," I said sagely.
"Well, I wish our call was over," sighed Cecily. "I can't tell you
how I dread it."
"Now, see here, Sis," I said cheerfully, "let's not think about it
till we get there. It'll only spoil our walk and do no good. Let's
just forget it and enjoy ourselves."
"I'll try," agreed Cecily, "but it's ever so much easier to preach
than to practise."
Our way lay first over a hill top, gallantly plumed with golden
rod, where cloud shadows drifted over us like a gypsying crew.
Carlisle, in all its ripely tinted length and breadth, lay below us,
basking in the August sunshine, that spilled over the brim of the
valley to the far-off Markdale Harbour, cupped in its harvest- golden
Then came a little valley overgrown with the pale purple bloom of
thistles and elusively haunted with their perfume. You say that
thistles have no perfume? Go you to a brook hollow where they grow
some late summer twilight at dewfall; and on the still air that rises
suddenly to meet you will come a waft of faint, aromatic fragrance,
wondrously sweet and evasive, the distillation of that despised thistle
Beyond this the path wound through a forest of fir, where a wood
wind wove its murmurous spell and a wood brook dimpled pellucidly among
the shadows--the dear, companionable, elfin shadows--that lurked under
the low growing boughs. Along the edges of that winding path grew
banks of velvet green moss, starred with clusters of pigeon berries.
Pigeon berries are not to be eaten. They are woolly, tasteless
things. But they are to be looked at in their glowing scarlet. They
are the jewels with which the forest of cone-bearers loves to deck its
brown breast. Cecily gathered some and pinned them on hers, but they
did not become her. I thought how witching the Story Girl's brown
curls would have looked twined with those brilliant clusters. Perhaps
Cecily was thinking of it, too, for she presently said,
"Bev, don't you think the Story Girl is changing somehow?"
"There are times--just times--when she seems to belong more among
the grown-ups than among us," I said, reluctantly, "especially when she
puts on her bridesmaid dress."
"Well, she's the oldest of us, and when you come to think of it,
she's fifteen,--that's almost grown-up," sighed Cecily. Then she
added, with sudden vehemence, "I hate the thought of any of us growing
up. Felicity says she just longs to be grown-up, but I don't, not a
bit. I wish I could just stay a little girl for ever--and have you and
Felix and all the others for playmates right along. I don't know how
it is--but whenever I think of being grown-up I seem to feel tired."
Something about Cecily's speech--or the wistful look that had crept
into her sweet brown eyes--made me feel vaguely uncomfortable; I was
glad that we were at the end of our journey, with Mr. Campbell's big
house before us, and his dog sitting gravely at the veranda steps.
"Oh, dear," said Cecily, with a shiver, "I'd been hoping that dog
wouldn't be around."
"He never bites," I assured her.
"Perhaps he doesn't, but he always looks as if he was going to,"
The dog continued to look, and, as we edged gingerly past him and
up the veranda steps, he turned his head and kept on looking. What
with Mr. Campbell before us and the dog behind, Cecily was trembling
with nervousness; but perhaps it was as well that the dour brute was
there, else I verily believe she would have turned and fled shamelessly
when we heard steps in the hall.
It was Mr. Campbell's housekeeper who came to the door, however;
she ushered us pleasantly into the sitting-room where Mr. Campbell was
reading. He laid down his book with a slight frown and said nothing at
all in response to our timid "good afternoon." But after we had sat for
a few minutes in wretched silence, wishing ourselves a thousand miles
away, he said, with a chuckle,
"Well, is it the school library again?"
Cecily had remarked as we were coming that what she dreaded most of
all was introducing the subject; but Mr. Campbell had given her a
splendid opening, and she plunged wildly in at once, rattling her
explanation off nervously with trembling voice and flushed cheeks.
"No, it's our Mission Band autograph quilt, Mr. Campbell. There
are to be as many squares in it as there are members in the Band. Each
one has a square and is collecting names for it. If you want to have
your name on the quilt you pay five cents, and if you want to have it
right in the round spot in the middle of the square you must pay ten
cents. Then when we have got all the names we can we will embroider
them on the squares. The money is to go to the little girl our Band is
supporting in Korea. I heard that nobody had asked you, so I thought
perhaps you would give me your name for my square."
Mr. Campbell drew his black brows together in a scowl.
"Stuff and nonsense!" he exclaimed angrily. "I don't believe in
Foreign Missions--don't believe in them at all. I never give a cent to
"Five cents isn't a very large sum," said Cecily earnestly.
Mr. Campbell's scowl disappeared and he laughed.
"It wouldn't break me," he admitted, "but it's the principle of the
thing. And as for that Mission Band of yours, if it wasn't for the fun
you get out of it, catch one of you belonging. You don't really care a
rap more for the heathen than I do."
"Oh, we do," protested Cecily. "We do think of all the poor little
children in Korea, and we like to think we are helping them, if it's
ever so little. We ARE in earnest, Mr. Campbell-- indeed we are."
"Don't believe it--don't believe a word of it," said Mr. Campbell
impolitely. "You'll do things that are nice and interesting. You'll
get up concerts, and chase people about for autographs and give money
your parents give you and that doesn't cost you either time or labour.
But you wouldn't do anything you disliked for the heathen
children--you wouldn't make any real sacrifice for them-- catch you!"
"Indeed we would," cried Cecily, forgetting her timidity in her
zeal. "I just wish I had a chance to prove it to you."
"You do, eh? Come, now, I'll take you at your word. I'll test
you. Tomorrow is Communion Sunday and the church will be full of folks
and they'll all have their best clothes on. If you go to church
tomorrow in the very costume you have on at present, without telling
anyone why you do so, until it is all over, I'll give you--why, I vow
I'll give you five dollars for that quilt of yours."
Poor Cecily! To go to church in a faded print dress, with a shabby
little old sun-hat and worn shoes! It was very cruel of Mr. Campbell.
"I--I don't think mother would let me," she faltered.
Her tormentor smiled grimly.
"It's not hard to find some excuse," he said sarcastically.
Cecily crimsoned and sat up facing Mr. Campbell spunkily.
"It's NOT an excuse," she said. "If mother will let me go to
church like this I'll go. But I'll have to tell HER why, Mr. Campbell,
because I'm certain she'd never let me if I didn't."
"Oh, you can tell all your own family," said Mr. Campbell, "but
remember, none of them must tell it outside until Sunday is over. If
they do, I'll be sure to find it out and then our bargain is off. If I
see you in church tomorrow, dressed as you are now, I'll give you my
name and five dollars. But I won't see you. You'll shrink when you've
had time to think it over."
"I sha'n't," said Cecily resolutely.
"Well, we'll see. And now come out to the barn with me. I've got
the prettiest little drove of calves out there you ever saw. I want
you to see them."
Mr. Campbell took us all over his barns and was very affable. He
had beautiful horses, cows and sheep, and I enjoyed seeing them. I
don't think Cecily did, however. She was very quiet and even Mr.
Campbell's handsome new span of dappled grays failed to arouse any
enthusiasm in her. She was already in bitter anticipation living over
the martyrdom of the morrow. On the way home she asked me seriously if
I thought Mr. Campbell would go to heaven when he died.
"Of course he will," I said. "Isn't he a member of the church?"
"Oh, yes, but I can't imagine him fitting into heaven. You know he
isn't really fond of anything but live stock."
"He's fond of teasing people, I guess," I responded. "Are you
really going to church to-morrow in that dress, Sis?"
"If mother'll let me I'll have to," said poor Cecily. "I won't let
Mr. Campbell triumph over me. And I DO want to have as many names as
Kitty has. And I DO want to help the poor little Korean children. But
it will be simply dreadful. I don't know whether I hope mother will or
I did not believe she would, but Aunt Janet sometimes could be
depended on for the unexpected. She laughed and told Cecily she could
please herself. Felicity was in a rage over it, and declared SHE
wouldn't go to church if Cecily went in such a rig. Dan sarcastically
inquired if all she went to church for was to show off her fine clothes
and look at other people's; then they quarrelled and didn't speak to
each other for two days, much to Cecily's distress.
I suspect poor Sis wished devoutly that it might rain the next day;
but it was gloriously fine. We were all waiting in the orchard for the
Story Girl who had not begun to dress for church until Cecily and
Felicity were ready. Felicity was her prettiest in flower-trimmed hat,
crisp muslin, floating ribbons and trim black slippers. Poor Cecily
stood beside her mute and pale, in her faded school garb and heavy
copper-toed boots. But her face, if pale, was very determined.
Cecily, having put her hand to the plough, was not of those who turn
"You do look just awful," said Felicity. "I don't care--I'm going
to sit in Uncle James' pew. I WON'T sit with you. There will be so
many strangers there, and all the Markdale people, and what will they
think of you? Some of them will never know the reason, either."
"I wish the Story Girl would hurry," was all poor Cecily said.
"We're going to be late. It wouldn't have been quite so hard if I
could have got there before anyone and slipped quietly into our pew."
"Here she comes at last," said Dan. "Why--what's she got on?"
The Story Girl joined us with a quizzical smile on her face. Dan
whistled. Cecily's pale cheeks flushed with understanding and
gratitude. The Story Girl wore her school print dress and hat also,
and was gloveless and heavy shod.
"You're not going to have to go through this all alone, Cecily,"
"Oh, it won't be half so hard now," said Cecily, with a long breath
I fancy it was hard enough even then. The Story Girl did not care
a whit, but Cecily rather squirmed under the curious glances that were
cast at her. She afterwards told me that she really did not think she
could have endured it if she had been alone.
Mr. Campbell met us under the elms in the churchyard, with a
twinkle in his eye.
"Well, you did it, Miss," he said to Cecily, "but you should have
been alone. That was what I meant. I suppose you think you've cheated
"No, she doesn't," spoke up the Story Girl undauntedly. "She was
all dressed and ready to come before she knew I was going to dress the
same way. So she kept her bargain faithfully, Mr. Campbell, and I
think you were cruel to make her do it."
"You do, eh? Well, well, I hope you'll forgive me. I didn't think
she'd do it--I was sure feminine vanity would win the day over
missionary zeal. It seems it didn't--though how much was pure
missionary zeal and how much just plain King spunk I'm doubtful. I'll
keep my promise, Miss. You shall have your five dollars, and mind you
put my name in the round space. No five- cent corners for me."
CHAPTER XXIV. A TANTALIZING
"I shall have something to tell you in the orchard this evening,"
said the Story Girl at breakfast one morning. Her eyes were very
bright and excited. She looked as if she had not slept a great deal.
She had spent the previous evening with Miss Reade and had not
returned until the rest of us were in bed. Miss Reade had finished
giving music lessons and was going home in a few days. Cecily and
Felicity were in despair over this and mourned as those without
comfort. But the Story Girl, who had been even more devoted to Miss
Reade than either of them, had not, as I noticed, expressed any regret
and seemed to be very cheerful over the whole matter.
"Why can't you tell it now?" asked Felicity.
"Because the evening is the nicest time to tell things in. I only
mentioned it now so that you would have something interesting to look
forward to all day."
"Is it about Miss Reade?" asked Cecily.
"I'll bet she's going to be married," I exclaimed, remembering the
"Is she?" cried Felicity and Cecily together.
The Story Girl threw an annoyed glance at me. She did not like to
have her dramatic announcements forestalled.
"I don't say that it is about Miss Reade or that it isn't. You
must just wait till the evening."
"I wonder what it is," speculated Cecily, as the Story Girl left
"I don't believe it's much of anything," said Felicity, beginning
to clear away the breakfast dishes. "The Story Girl always likes to
make so much out of so little. Anyhow, I don't believe Miss Reade is
going to be married. She hasn't any beaus around here and Mrs.
Armstrong says she's sure she doesn't correspond with anybody.
Besides, if she was she wouldn't be likely to tell the Story Girl."
"Oh, she might. They're such friends, you know," said Cecily.
"Miss Reade is no better friends with her than she is with me and
you," retorted Felicity.
"No, but sometimes it seems to me that she's a different kind of
friend with the Story Girl than she is with me and you," reflected
Cecily. "I can't just explain what I mean."
"No wonder. Such nonsense," sniffed Felicity. "It's only some
girl's secret, anyway," said Dan, loftily. "I don't feel much interest
But he was on hand with the rest of us that evening, interest or no
interest, in Uncle Stephen's Walk, where the ripening apples were
beginning to glow like jewels among the boughs.
"Now, are you going to tell us your news?" asked Felicity
"Miss Reade IS going to be married," said the Story Girl. "She
told me so last night. She is going to be married in a fortnight's
"Who to?" exclaimed the girls.
"To"--the Story Girl threw a defiant glance at me as if to say,
"You can't spoil the surprise of THIS, anyway,"--"to--the Awkward Man."
For a few moments amazement literally held us dumb.
"You're not in earnest, Sara Stanley?" gasped Felicity at last.
"Indeed I am. I thought you'd be astonished. But I wasn't. I've
suspected it all summer, from little things I've noticed. Don't you
remember that evening last spring when I went a piece with Miss Reade
and told you when I came back that a story was growing? I guessed it
from the way the Awkward Man looked at her when I stopped to speak to
him over his garden fence."
"But--the Awkward Man!" said Felicity helplessly. "It doesn't seem
possible. Did Miss Reade tell you HERSELF?"
"I suppose it must be true then. But how did it ever come about?
He's SO shy and awkward. How did he ever manage to get up enough spunk
to ask her to marry him?"
"Maybe she asked him," suggested Dan.
The Story Girl looked as if she might tell if she would.
"I believe that WAS the way of it," I said, to draw her on.
"Not exactly," she said reluctantly. "I know all about it but I
can't tell you. I guessed part from things I've seen--and Miss Reade
told me a good deal--and the Awkward Man himself told me his side of it
as we came home last night. I met him just as I left Mr. Armstrong's
and we were together as far as his house. It was dark and he just
talked on as if he were talking to himself--I think he forgot I was
there at all, once he got started. He has never been shy or awkward
with me, but he never talked as he did last night."
"You might tell us what he said," urged Cecily. "We'd never tell."
The Story Girl shook her head.
"No, I can't. You wouldn't understand. Besides, I couldn't tell
it just right. It's one of the things that are hardest to tell. I'd
spoil it if I told it--now. Perhaps some day I'll be able to tell it
properly. It's very beautiful--but it might sound very ridiculous if
it wasn't told just exactly the right way."
"I don't know what you mean, and I don't believe you know
yourself," said Felicity pettishly. "All that I can make out is that
Miss Reade is going to marry Jasper Dale, and I don't like the idea one
bit. She is so beautiful and sweet. I thought she'd marry some
dashing young man. Jasper Dale must be nearly twenty years older than
her--and he's so queer and shy--and such a hermit."
"Miss Reade is perfectly happy," said the Story Girl. "She thinks
the Awkward Man is lovely--and so he is. You don't know him, but I
"Well, you needn't put on such airs about it," sniffed Felicity.
"I am not putting on any airs. But it's true. Miss Reade and I
are the only people in Carlisle who really know the Awkward Man.
Nobody else ever got behind his shyness to find out just what sort of
a man he is."
"When are they to be married?" asked Felicity.
"In a fortnight's time. And then they are coming right back to
live at Golden Milestone. Won't it be lovely to have Miss Reade always
so near us?"
"I wonder what she'll think about the mystery of Golden Milestone,"
Golden Milestone was the beautiful name the Awkward Man had given
his home; and there was a mystery about it, as readers of the first
volume of these chronicles will recall.
"She knows all about the mystery and thinks it perfectly lovely--
and so do I," said the Story Girl.
"Do YOU know the secret of the locked room?" cried Cecily.
"Yes, the Awkward Man told me all about it last night. I told you
I'd find out the mystery some time."
"And what is it?"
"I can't tell you that either."
"I think you're hateful and mean," exclaimed Felicity. "It hasn't
anything to do with Miss Reade, so I think you might tell us."
"It has something to do with Miss Reade. It's all about her."
"Well, I don't see how that can be when the Awkward Man never saw
or heard of Miss Reade until she came to Carlisle in the spring," said
Felicity incredulously, "and he's had that locked room for years."
"I can't explain it to you--but it's just as I've said," responded
the Story Girl.
"Well, it's a very queer thing," retorted Felicity.
"The name in the books in the room was Alice--and Miss Reade's name
is Alice," marvelled Cecily. "Did he know her before she came here?"
"Mrs. Griggs says that room has been locked for ten years. Ten
years ago Miss Reade was just a little girl of ten. SHE couldn't be
the Alice of the books," argued Felicity.
"I wonder if she'll wear the blue silk dress," said Sara Ray.
"And what will she do about the picture, if it isn't hers?" added
"The picture couldn't be hers, or Mrs. Griggs would have known her
for the same when she came to Carlisle," said Felix.
"I'm going to stop wondering about it," exclaimed Felicity crossly,
aggravated by the amused smile with which the Story Girl was listening
to the various speculations. "I think Sara is just as mean as mean
when she won't tell us."
"I can't," repeated the Story Girl patiently.
"You said one time you had an idea who 'Alice' was," I said. "Was
your idea anything like the truth?"
"Yes, I guessed pretty nearly right."
"Do you suppose they'll keep the room locked after they are
married?" asked Cecily.
"Oh, no. I can tell you that much. It is to be Miss Reade's own
particular sitting room."
"Why, then, perhaps we'll see it some time ourselves, when we go to
see Miss Reade," cried Cecily.
"I'd be frightened to go into it," confessed Sara Ray. "I hate
things with mysteries. They always make me nervous."
"I love them. They're so exciting," said the Story Girl.
"Just think, this will be the second wedding of people we know,"
reflected Cecily. "Isn't that interesting?"
"I only hope the next thing won't be a funeral," remarked Sara Ray
gloomily. "There were three lighted lamps on our kitchen table last
night, and Judy Pineau says that's a sure sign of a funeral."
"Well, there are funerals going on all the time," said Dan.
"But it means the funeral of somebody you know. I don't believe in
it--MUCH--but Judy says she's seen it come true time and again. I hope
if it does it won't be anybody we know very well. But I hope it'll be
somebody I know a LITTLE, because then I might get to the funeral. I'd
just love to go to a funeral."
"That's a dreadful thing to say," commented Felicity in a shocked
Sara Ray looked bewildered.
"I don't see what is dreadful in it," she protested.
"People don't go to funerals for the fun of it," said Felicity
severely. "And you just as good as said you hoped somebody you knew
would die so you'd get to the funeral."
"No, no, I didn't. I didn't mean that AT ALL, Felicity. I don't
want anybody to die; but what I meant was, if anybody I knew HAD to die
there might be a chance to go to the funeral. I've never been to a
single funeral yet, and it must be so interesting."
"Well, don't mix up talk about funerals with talk about weddings,"
said Felicity. "It isn't lucky. I think Miss Reade is simply throwing
herself away, but I hope she'll be happy. And I hope the Awkward Man
will manage to get married without making some awful blunder, but it's
more than I expect."
"The ceremony is to be very private," said the Story Girl.
"I'd like to see them the day they appear out in church," chuckled
Dan. "How'll he ever manage to bring her in and show her into the pew?
I'll bet he'll go in first--or tramp on her dress--or fall over his
"Maybe he won't go to church at all the first Sunday and she'll
have to go alone," said Peter. "That happened in Markdale. A man was
too bashful to go to church the first time after getting married, and
his wife went alone till he got used to the idea."
"They may do things like that in Markdale but that is not the way
people behave in Carlisle," said Felicity loftily.
Seeing the Story Girl slipping away with a disapproving face I
"What is the matter, Sara?" I asked.
"I hate to hear them talking like that about Miss Reade and Mr.
Dale," she answered vehemently. "It's really all so beautiful-- but
they make it seem silly and absurd, somehow."
"You might tell me all about it, Sara," I insinuated. "I wouldn't
tell--and I'd understand."
"Yes, I think you would," she said thoughtfully. "But I can't tell
it even to you because I can't tell it well enough yet. I've a feeling
that there's only one way to tell it--and I don't know the way yet.
Some day I'll know it--and then I'll tell you, Bev."
Long, long after she kept her word. Forty years later I wrote to
her, across the leagues of land and sea that divided us, and told her
that Jasper Dale was dead; and I reminded her of her old promise and
asked its fulfilment. In reply she sent me the written love story of
Jasper Dale and Alice Reade. Now, when Alice sleeps under the
whispering elms of the old Carlisle churchyard, beside the husband of
her youth, that story may be given, in all its old-time sweetness, to
CHAPTER XXV. THE LOVE STORY OF THE
(Written by the Story Girl)
Jasper Dale lived alone in the old homestead which he had named
Golden Milestone. In Carlisle this giving one's farm a name was looked
upon as a piece of affectation; but if a place must be named why not
give it a sensible name with some meaning to it? Why Golden Milestone,
when Pinewood or Hillslope or, if you wanted to be very fanciful, Ivy
Lodge, might be had for the taking?
He had lived alone at Golden Milestone since his mother's death; he
had been twenty then and he was close upon forty now, though he did not
look it. But neither could it be said that he looked young; he had
never at any time looked young with common youth; there had always been
something in his appearance that stamped him as different from the
ordinary run of men, and, apart from his shyness, built up an
intangible, invisible barrier between him and his kind. He had lived
all his life in Carlisle; and all the Carlisle people knew of or about
him--although they thought they knew everything--was that he was
painfully, abnormally shy. He never went anywhere except to church; he
never took part in Carlisle's simple social life; even with most men he
was distant and reserved; as for women, he never spoke to or looked at
them; if one spoke to him, even if she were a matronly old mother in
Israel, he was at once in an agony of painful blushes. He had no
friends in the sense of companions; to all outward appearance his life
was solitary and devoid of any human interest.
He had no housekeeper; but his old house, furnished as it had been
in his mother's lifetime, was cleanly and daintily kept. The quaint
rooms were as free from dust and disorder as a woman could have had
them. This was known, because Jasper Dale occasionally had his hired
man's wife, Mrs. Griggs, in to scrub for him. On the morning she was
expected he betook himself to woods and fields, returning only at
night-fall. During his absence Mrs. Griggs was frankly wont to explore
the house from cellar to attic, and her report of its condition was
always the same--"neat as wax." To be sure, there was one room that was
always locked against her, the west gable, looking out on the garden
and the hill of pines beyond. But Mrs. Griggs knew that in the
lifetime of Jasper Dale's mother it had been unfurnished. She supposed
it still remained so, and felt no especial curiosity concerning it,
though she always tried the door.
Jasper Dale had a good farm, well cultivated; he had a large garden
where he worked most of his spare time in summer; it was supposed that
he read a great deal, since the postmistress declared that he was
always getting books and magazines by mail. He seemed well contented
with his existence and people let him alone, since that was the
greatest kindness they could do him. It was unsupposable that he would
ever marry; nobody ever had supposed it.
"Jasper Dale never so much as THOUGHT about a woman," Carlisle
oracles declared. Oracles, however, are not always to be trusted.
One day Mrs. Griggs went away from the Dale place with a very
curious story, which she diligently spread far and wide. It made a
good deal of talk, but people, although they listened eagerly, and
wondered and questioned, were rather incredulous about it. They
thought Mrs. Griggs must be drawing considerably upon her imagination;
there were not lacking those who declared that she had invented the
whole account, since her reputation for strict veracity was not wholly
Mrs. Griggs's story was as follows:--
One day she found the door of the west gable unlocked. She went
in, expecting to see bare walls and a collection of odds and ends.
Instead she found herself in a finely furnished room. Delicate lace
curtains hung before the small, square, broad-silled windows. The
walls were adorned with pictures in much finer taste than Mrs. Griggs
could appreciate. There was a bookcase between the windows filled with
choicely bound books. Beside it stood a little table with a very
dainty work-basket on it. By the basket Mrs. Griggs saw a pair of tiny
scissors and a silver thimble. A wicker rocker, comfortable with silk
cushions, was near it. Above the bookcase a woman's picture hung--a
water-colour, if Mrs. Griggs had but known it--representing a pale,
very sweet face, with large, dark eyes and a wistful expression under
loose masses of black, lustrous hair. Just beneath the picture, on the
top shelf of the bookcase, was a vaseful of flowers. Another vaseful
stood on the table beside the basket.
All this was astonishing enough. But what puzzled Mrs. Griggs
completely was the fact that a woman's dress was hanging over a chair
before the mirror--a pale blue, silken affair. And on the floor beside
it were two little blue satin slippers!
Good Mrs. Griggs did not leave the room until she had thoroughly
explored it, even to shaking out the blue dress and discovering it to
be a tea-gown--wrapper, she called it. But she found nothing to throw
any light on the mystery. The fact that the simple name "Alice" was
written on the fly-leaves of all the books only deepened it, for it was
a name unknown in the Dale family. In this puzzled state she was
obliged to depart, nor did she ever find the door unlocked again; and,
discovering that people thought she was romancing when she talked about
the mysterious west gable at Golden Milestone, she indignantly held her
peace concerning the whole affair.
But Mrs. Griggs had told no more than the simple truth. Jasper
Dale, under all his shyness and aloofness, possessed a nature full of
delicate romance and poesy, which, denied expression in the common ways
of life, bloomed out in the realm of fancy and imagination. Left
alone, just when the boy's nature was deepening into the man's, he
turned to this ideal kingdom for all he believed the real world could
never give him. Love--a strange, almost mystical love--played its part
here for him. He shadowed forth to himself the vision of a woman,
loving and beloved; he cherished it until it became almost as real to
him as his own personality and he gave this dream woman the name he
liked best-- Alice. In fancy he walked and talked with her, spoke words
of love to her, and heard words of love in return. When he came from
work at the close of day she met him at his threshold in the twilight--
a strange, fair, starry shape, as elusive and spiritual as a blossom
reflected in a pool by moonlight--with welcome on her lips and in her
One day, when he was in Charlottetown on business, he had been
struck by a picture in the window of a store. It was strangely like
the woman of his dream love. He went in, awkward and embarrassed, and
bought it. When he took it home he did not know where to put it. It
was out of place among the dim old engravings of bewigged portraits and
conventional landscapes on the walls of Golden Milestone. As he
pondered the matter in his garden that evening he had an inspiration.
The sunset, flaming on the windows of the west gable, kindled them
into burning rose. Amid the splendour he fancied Alice's fair face
peeping archly down at him from the room. The inspiration came then.
It should be her room; he would fit it up for her; and her picture
should hang there.
He was all summer carrying out his plan. Nobody must know or
suspect, so he must go slowly and secretly. One by one the furnishings
were purchased and brought home under cover of darkness. He arranged
them with his own hands. He bought the books he thought she would like
best and wrote her name in them; he got the little feminine
knick-knacks of basket and thimble. Finally he saw in a store a pale
blue tea-gown and the satin slippers. He had always fancied her as
dressed in blue. He bought them and took them home to her room.
Thereafter it was sacred to her; he always knocked on its door before
he entered; he kept it sweet with fresh flowers; he sat there in the
purple summer evenings and talked aloud to her or read his favourite
books to her. In his fancy she sat opposite to him in her rocker, clad
in the trailing blue gown, with her head leaning on one slender hand,
as white as a twilight star.
But Carlisle people knew nothing of this--would have thought him
tinged with mild lunacy if they had known. To them, he was just the
shy, simple farmer he appeared. They never knew or guessed at the real
One spring Alice Reade came to teach music in Carlisle. Her pupils
worshipped her, but the grown people thought she was rather too distant
and reserved. They had been used to merry, jolly girls who joined
eagerly in the social life of the place. Alice Reade held herself
aloof from it--not disdainfully, but as one to whom these things were
of small importance. She was very fond of books and solitary rambles;
she was not at all shy but she was as sensitive as a flower; and after
a time Carlisle people were content to let her live her own life and no
longer resented her unlikeness to themselves.
She boarded with the Armstrongs, who lived beyond Golden Milestone
around the hill of pines. Until the snow disappeared she went out to
the main road by the long Armstrong lane; but when spring came she was
wont to take a shorter way, down the pine hill, across the brook, past
Jasper Dale's garden, and out through his lane. And one day, as she
went by, Jasper Dale was working in his garden.
He was on his knees in a corner, setting out a bunch of roots--an
unsightly little tangle of rainbow possibilities. It was a still
spring morning; the world was green with young leaves; a little wind
blew down from the pines and lost itself willingly among the budding
delights of the garden. The grass opened eyes of blue violets. The
sky was high and cloudless, turquoise-blue, shading off into milkiness
on the far horizons. Birds were singing along the brook valley.
Rollicking robins were whistling joyously in the pines. Jasper Dale's
heart was filled to over-flowing with a realization of all the virgin
loveliness around him; the feeling in his soul had the sacredness of a
prayer. At this moment he looked up and saw Alice Reade.
She was standing outside the garden fence, in the shadow of a great
pine tree, looking not at him, for she was unaware of his presence, but
at the virginal bloom of the plum trees in a far corner, with all her
delight in it outblossoming freely in her face. For a moment Jasper
Dale believed that his dream love had taken visible form before him.
She was like--so like; not in feature, perhaps, but in grace and
colouring--the grace of a slender, lissome form and the colouring of
cloudy hair and wistful, dark gray eyes, and curving red mouth; and
more than all, she was like her in expression--in the subtle revelation
of personality exhaling from her like perfume from a flower. It was as
if his own had come to him at last and his whole soul suddenly leaped
out to meet and welcome her.
Then her eyes fell upon him and the spell was broken. Jasper
remained kneeling mutely there, shy man once more, crimson with
blushes, a strange, almost pitiful creature in his abject confusion. A
little smile flickered about the delicate corners of her mouth, but she
turned and walked swiftly away down the lane.
Jasper looked after her with a new, painful sense of loss and
loveliness. It had been agony to feel her conscious eyes upon him, but
he realized now that there had been a strange sweetness in it, too. It
was still greater pain to watch her going from him.
He thought she must be the new music teacher but he did not even
know her name. She had been dressed in blue, too--a pale, dainty blue;
but that was of course; he had known she must wear it; and he was sure
her name must be Alice. When, later on, he discovered that it was, he
felt no surprise.
He carried some mayflowers up to the west gable and put them under
the picture. But the charm had gone out of the tribute; and looking at
the picture, he thought how scant was the justice it did her. Her face
was so much sweeter, her eyes so much softer, her hair so much more
lustrous. The soul of his love had gone from the room and from the
picture and from his dreams. When he tried to think of the Alice he
loved he saw, not the shadowy spirit occupant of the west gable, but
the young girl who had stood under the pine, beautiful with the beauty
of moonlight, of starshine on still water, of white, wind-swayed
flowers growing in silent, shadowy places. He did not then realize
what this meant: had he realized it he would have suffered bitterly; as
it was he felt only a vague discomfort--a curious sense of loss and
He saw her again that afternoon on her way home. She did not pause
by the garden but walked swiftly past. Thereafter, every day for a
week he watched unseen to see her pass his home. Once a little child
was with her, clinging to her hand. No child had ever before had any
part in the shy man's dream life. But that night in the twilight the
vision of the rocking-chair was a girl in a blue print dress, with a
little, golden-haired shape at her knee--a shape that lisped and
prattled and called her "mother;" and both of them were his.
It was the next day that he failed for the first time to put
flowers in the west gable. Instead, he cut a loose handful of
daffodils and, looking furtively about him as if committing a crime, he
laid them across the footpath under the pine. She must pass that way;
her feet would crush them if she failed to see them. Then he slipped
back into his garden, half exultant, half repentant. From a safe
retreat he saw her pass by and stoop to lift his flowers. Thereafter
he put some in the same place every day.
When Alice Reade saw the flowers she knew at once who had put them
there, and divined that they were for her. She lifted them tenderly in
much surprise and pleasure. She had heard all about Jasper Dale and
his shyness; but before she had heard about him she had seen him in
church and liked him. She thought his face and his dark blue eyes
beautiful; she even liked the long brown hair that Carlisle people
laughed at. That he was quite different from other people she had
understood at once, but she thought the difference in his favour.
Perhaps her sensitive nature divined and responded to the beauty in
his. At least, in her eyes Jasper Dale was never a ridiculous figure.
When she heard the story of the west gable, which most people
disbelieved, she believed it, although she did not understand it. It
invested the shy man with interest and romance. She felt that she
would have liked, out of no impertinent curiosity, to solve the
mystery; she believed that it contained the key to his character.
Thereafter, every day she found flowers under the pine tree; she
wished to see Jasper to thank him, unaware that he watched her daily
from the screen of shrubbery in his garden; but it was some time before
she found the opportunity. One evening she passed when he, not
expecting her, was leaning against his garden fence with a book in his
hand. She stopped under the pine.
"Mr. Dale," she said softly, "I want to thank you for your
Jasper, startled, wished that he might sink into the ground. His
anguish of embarrassment made her smile a little. He could not speak,
so she went on gently.
"It has been so good of you. They have given me so much pleasure--
I wish you could know how much."
"It was nothing--nothing," stammered Jasper. His book had fallen
on the ground at her feet, and she picked it up and held it out to him.
"So you like Ruskin," she said. "I do, too. But I haven't read
"If you--would care--to read it--you may have it," Jasper contrived
She carried the book away with her. He did not again hide when she
passed, and when she brought the book back they talked a little about
it over the fence. He lent her others, and got some from her in
return; they fell into the habit of discussing them. Jasper did not
find it hard to talk to her now; it seemed as if he were talking to his
dream Alice, and it came strangely natural to him. He did not talk
volubly, but Alice thought what he did say was worth while. His words
lingered in her memory and made music. She always found his flowers
under the pine, and she always wore some of them, but she did not know
if he noticed this or not.
One evening Jasper walked shyly with her from his gate up the pine
hill. After that he always walked that far with her. She would have
missed him much if he had failed to do so; yet it did not occur to her
that she was learning to love him. She would have laughed with girlish
scorn at the idea. She liked him very much; she thought his nature
beautiful in its simplicity and purity; in spite of his shyness she
felt more delightfully at home in his society than in that of any other
person she had ever met. He was one of those rare souls whose
friendship is at once a pleasure and a benediction, showering light
from their own crystal clearness into all the dark corners in the souls
of others, until, for the time being at least, they reflected his own
nobility. But she never thought of love. Like other girls she had her
dreams of a possible Prince Charming, young and handsome and debonair.
It never occurred to her that he might be found in the shy, dreamy
recluse of Golden Milestone.
In August came a day of gold and blue. Alice Reade, coming through
the trees, with the wind blowing her little dark love- locks tricksily
about under her wide blue hat, found a fragrant heap of mignonette
under the pine. She lifted it and buried her face in it, drinking in
the wholesome, modest perfume.
She had hoped Jasper would be in his garden, since she wished to
ask him for a book she greatly desired to read. But she saw him
sitting on the rustic seat at the further side. His back was towards
her, and he was partially screened by a copse of lilacs.
Alice, blushing slightly, unlatched the garden gate, and went down
the path. She had never been in the garden before, and she found her
heart beating in a strange fashion.
He did not hear her footsteps, and she was close behind him when
she heard his voice, and realized that he was talking to himself, in a
low, dreamy tone. As the meaning of his words dawned on her
consciousness she started and grew crimson. She could not move or
speak; as one in a dream she stood and listened to the shy man's
reverie, guiltless of any thought of eavesdropping.
"How much I love you, Alice," Jasper Dale was saying, unafraid,
with no shyness in voice or manner. "I wonder what you would say if
you knew. You would laugh at me--sweet as you are, you would laugh in
mockery. I can never tell you. I can only dream of telling you. In
my dream you are standing here by me, dear. I can see you very
plainly, my sweet lady, so tall and gracious, with your dark hair and
your maiden eyes. I can dream that I tell you my love; that--maddest,
sweetest dream of all--that you love me in return. Everything is
possible in dreams, you know, dear. My dreams are all I have, so I go
far in them, even to dreaming that you are my wife. I dream how I
shall fix up my dull old house for you. One room will need nothing
more--it is your room, dear, and has been ready for you a long
time--long before that day I saw you under the pine. Your books and
your chair and your picture are there, dear--only the picture is not
half lovely enough. But the other rooms of the house must be made to
bloom out freshly for you. What a delight it is thus to dream of what
I would do for you! Then I would bring you home, dear, and lead you
through my garden and into my house as its mistress. I would see you
standing beside me in the old mirror at the end of the hall--a bride,
in your pale blue dress, with a blush on your face. I would lead you
through all the rooms made ready for your coming, and then to your own.
I would see you sitting in your own chair and all my dreams would find
rich fulfilment in that royal moment. Oh, Alice, we would have a
beautiful life together! It's sweet to make believe about it. You
will sing to me in the twilight, and we will gather early flowers
together in the spring days. When I come home from work, tired, you
will put your arms about me and lay your head on my shoulder. I will
stroke it--so--that bonny, glossy head of yours. Alice, my Alice--all
mine in my dream-- never to be mine in real life--how I love you!"
The Alice behind him could bear no more. She gave a little choking
cry that betrayed her presence. Jasper Dale sprang up and gazed upon
her. He saw her standing there, amid the languorous shadows of August,
pale with feeling, wide-eyed, trembling.
For a moment shyness wrung him. Then every trace of it was
banished by a sudden, strange, fierce anger that swept over him. He
felt outraged and hurt to the death; he felt as if he had been cheated
out of something incalculably precious--as if sacrilege had been done
to his most holy sanctuary of emotion. White, tense with his anger, he
looked at her and spoke, his lips as pale as if his fiery words scathed
"How dare you? You have spied on me--you have crept in and
listened! How dare you? Do you know what you have done, girl? You
have destroyed all that made life worth while to me. My dream is dead.
It could not live when it was betrayed. And it was all I had. Oh,
laugh at me--mock me! I know that I am ridiculous! What of it? It
never could have hurt you! Why must you creep in like this to hear me
and put me to shame? Oh, I love you--I will say it, laugh as you will.
Is it such a strange thing that I should have a heart like other men?
This will make sport for you! I, who love you better than my life,
better than any other man in the world can love you, will be a jest to
you all your life. I love you--and yet I think I could hate you--you
have destroyed my dream--you have done me deadly wrong."
"Jasper! Jasper!" cried Alice, finding her voice. His anger hurt
her with a pain she could not endure. It was unbearable that Jasper
should be angry with her. In that moment she realized that she loved
him--that the words he had spoken when unconscious of her presence were
the sweetest she had ever heard, or ever could hear. Nothing mattered
at all, save that he loved her and was angry with her.
"Don't say such dreadful things to me," she stammered, "I did not
mean to listen. I could not help it. I shall never laugh at you. Oh,
Jasper"--she looked bravely at him and the fine soul of her shone
through the flesh like an illuminating lamp--"I am glad that you love
me! and I am glad I chanced to overhear you, since you would never
have had the courage to tell me otherwise. Glad-- glad! Do you
Jasper looked at her with the eyes of one who, looking through
pain, sees rapture beyond.
"Is it possible?" he said, wonderingly. "Alice--I am so much older
than you--and they call me the Awkward Man--they say I am unlike other
"You ARE unlike other people," she said softly, "and that is why I
love you. I know now that I must have loved you ever since I saw you."
"I loved you long before I saw you," said Jasper.
He came close to her and drew her into his arms, tenderly and
reverently, all his shyness and awkwardness swallowed up in the grace
of his great happiness. In the old garden he kissed her lips and Alice
entered into her own.
CHAPTER XXVI. UNCLE BLAIR COMES HOME
It happened that the Story Girl and I both got up very early on the
morning of the Awkward Man's wedding day. Uncle Alec was going to
Charlottetown that day, and I, awakened at daybreak by the sounds in
the kitchen beneath us, remembered that I had forgotten to ask him to
bring me a certain school-book I wanted. So I hurriedly dressed and
hastened down to tell him before he went. I was joined on the stairs
by the Story Girl, who said she had wakened and, not feeling like going
to sleep again, thought she might as well get up.
"I had such a funny dream last night," she said. "I dreamed that I
heard a voice calling me from away down in Uncle Stephen's Walk--
'Sara, Sara, Sara,' it kept calling. I didn't know whose it was, and
yet it seemed like a voice I knew. I wakened up while it was calling,
and it seemed so real I could hardly believe it was a dream. It was
bright moonlight, and I felt just like getting up and going out to the
orchard. But I knew that would be silly and of course I didn't go.
But I kept on wanting to and I couldn't sleep any more. Wasn't it
When Uncle Alec had gone I proposed a saunter to the farther end of
the orchard, where I had left a book the preceding evening. A young
mom was walking rosily on the hills as we passed down Uncle Stephen's
Walk, with Paddy trotting before us. High overhead was the spirit-like
blue of paling skies; the east was a great arc of crystal, smitten
through with auroral crimsonings; just above it was one milk-white star
of morning, like a pearl on a silver sea. A light wind of dawn was
weaving an orient spell.
"It's lovely to be up as early as this, isn't it?" said the Story
Girl. "The world seems so different just at sunrise, doesn't it? It
makes me feel just like getting up to see the sun rise every morning of
my life after this. But I know I won't. I'll likely sleep later than
ever tomorrow morning. But I wish I could."
"The Awkward Man and Miss Reade are going to have a lovely day for
their wedding," I said.
"Yes, and I'm so glad. Beautiful Alice deserves everything good.
Why, Bev--why, Bev! Who is that in the hammock?"
I looked. The hammock was swung under the two end trees of the
Walk. In it a man was lying, asleep, his head pillowed on his
overcoat. He was sleeping easily, lightly, and wholesomely. He had a
pointed brown beard and thick wavy brown hair. His cheeks were a dusky
red and the lashes of his closed eyes were as long and dark and silken
as a girl's. He wore a light gray suit, and on the slender white hand
that hung down over the hammock's edge was a spark of diamond fire.
It seemed to me that I knew his face, although assuredly I had
never seen him before. While I groped among vague speculations the
Story Girl gave a queer, choked little cry. The next moment she had
sprung over the intervening space, dropped on her knees by the hammock,
and flung her arms about the man's neck.
"Father! Father!" she cried, while I stood, rooted to the ground
in my amazement.
The sleeper stirred and opened two large, exceedingly brilliant
hazel eyes. For a moment he gazed rather blankly at the brown- curled
young lady who was embracing him. Then a most delightful smile broke
over his face; he sprang up and caught her to his heart.
"Sara--Sara--my little Sara! To think didn't know you at first
glance! But you are almost a woman. And when I saw you last you were
just a little girl of eight. My own little Sara!"
"Father--father--sometimes I've wondered if you were ever coming
back to me," I heard the Story Girl say, as I turned and scuttled up
the Walk, realizing that I was not wanted there just then and would be
little missed. Various emotions and speculations possessed my mind in
my retreat; but chiefly did I feel a sense of triumph in being the
bearer of exciting news.
"Aunt Janet, Uncle Blair is here," I announced breathlessly at the
Aunt Janet, who was kneading her bread, turned round and lifted
floury hands. Felicity and Cecily, who were just entering the kitchen,
rosy from slumber, stopped still and stared at me.
"Uncle who?" exclaimed Aunt Janet.
"Uncle Blair--the Story Girl's father, you know. He's here."
"Down in the orchard. He was asleep in the hammock. We found him
"Dear me!" said Aunt Janet, sitting down helplessly. "If that
isn't like Blair! Of course he couldn't come like anybody else. I
wonder," she added in a tone unheard by anyone else save myself, "I
wonder if he has come to take the child away."
My elation went out like a snuffed candle. I had never thought of
this. If Uncle Blair took the Story Girl away would not life become
rather savourless on the hill farm? I turned and followed Felicity and
Cecily out in a very subdued mood.
Uncle Blair and the Story Girl were just coming out of the orchard.
His arm was about her and hers was on his shoulder. Laughter and
tears were contending in her eyes. Only once before-- when Peter had
come back from the Valley of the Shadow--had I seen the Story Girl cry.
Emotion had to go very deep with her ere it touched the source of
tears. I had always known that she loved her father passionately,
though she rarely talked of him, understanding that her uncles and
aunts were not whole-heartedly his friends.
But Aunt Janet's welcome was cordial enough, though a trifle
flustered. Whatever thrifty, hard-working farmer folk might think of
gay, Bohemian Blair Stanley in his absence, in his presence even they
liked him, by the grace of some winsome, lovable quality in the soul of
him. He had "a way with him"--revealed even in the manner with which
he caught staid Aunt Janet in his arms, swung her matronly form around
as though she had been a slim schoolgirl, and kissed her rosy cheek.
"Sister o' mine, are you never going to grow old?" he said. "Here
you are at forty-five with the roses of sixteen--and not a gray hair,
"Blair, Blair, it is you who are always young," laughed Aunt Janet,
not ill pleased. "Where in the world did you come from? And what is
this I hear of your sleeping all night in the hammock?"
"I've been painting in the Lake District all summer, as you know,"
answered Uncle Blair, "and one day I just got homesick to see my little
girl. So I sailed for Montreal without further delay. I got here at
eleven last night--the station-master's son drove me down. Nice boy.
The old house was in darkness and I thought it would be a shame to
rouse you all out of bed after a hard day's work. So I decided that I
would spend the night in the orchard. It was moonlight, you know, and
moonlight in an old orchard is one of the few things left over from the
"It was very foolish of you," said practical Aunt Janet. "These
September nights are real chilly. You might have caught your death of
cold--or a bad dose of rheumatism."
"So I might. No doubt it was foolish of me," agreed Uncle Blair
gaily. "It must have been the fault, of the moonlight. Moonlight, you
know, Sister Janet, has an intoxicating quality. It is a fine, airy,
silver wine, such as fairies may drink at their revels, unharmed of it;
but when a mere mortal sips of it, it mounts straightway to his brain,
to the undoing of his daylight common sense. However, I have got
neither cold nor rheumatism, as a sensible person would have done had
he ever been lured into doing such a non-sensible thing; there is a
special Providence for us foolish folk. I enjoyed my night in the
orchard; for a time I was companioned by sweet old memories; and then I
fell asleep listening to the murmurs of the wind in those old trees
yonder. And I had a beautiful dream, Janet. I dreamed that the old
orchard blossomed again, as it did that spring eighteen years ago. I
dreamed that its sunshine was the sunshine of spring, not autumn.
There was newness of life in my dream, Janet, and the sweetness of
"Wasn't it strange about MY dream?" whispered the Story Girl to me.
"Well, you'd better come in and have some breakfast," said Aunt
Janet. "These are my little girls--Felicity and Cecily."
"I remember them as two most adorable tots," said Uncle Blair,
shaking hands. "They haven't changed quite so much as my own
baby-child. Why, she's a woman, Janet--she's a woman."
"She's child enough still," said Aunt Janet hastily.
The Story Girl shook her long brown curls.
"I'm fifteen," she said. "And you ought to see me in my long
"We must not be separated any longer, dear heart," I heard Uncle
Blair say tenderly. I hoped that he meant he would stay in Canada--not
that he would take the Story Girl away.
Apart from this we had a gay day with Uncle Blair. He evidently
liked our society better than that of the grown-ups, for he was a child
himself at heart, gay, irresponsible, always acting on the impulse of
the moment. We all found him a delightful companion. There was no
school that day, as Mr. Perkins was absent, attending a meeting of the
Teachers' Convention, so we spent most of its golden hours in the
orchard with Uncle Blair, listening to his fascinating accounts of
foreign wanderings. He also drew all our pictures for us, and this was
especially delightful, for the day of the camera was only just dawning
and none of us had ever had even our photographs taken. Sara Ray's
pleasure was, as usual, quite spoiled by wondering what her mother
would say of it, for Mrs. Ray had, so it appeared, some very peculiar
prejudices against the taking or making of any kind of picture
whatsoever, owing to an exceedingly strict interpretation of the second
commandment. Dan suggested that she need not tell her mother anything
about it; but Sara shook her head.
"I'll have to tell her. I've made it a rule to tell ma everything
I do ever since the Judgment Day."
"Besides," added Cecily seriously, "the Family Guide says one ought
to tell one's mother everything."
"It's pretty hard sometimes, though," sighed Sara. "Ma scolds so
much when I do tell her things, that it sort of discourages me. But
when I think of how dreadful I felt the time of the Judgment Day over
deceiving her in some things it nerves me up. I'd do almost anything
rather than feel like that the next time the Judgment Day comes."
"Fe, fi, fo, fum, I smell a story," said Uncle Blair. "What do you
mean by speaking of the Judgment Day in the past tense?"
The Story Girl told him the tale of that dreadful Sunday in the
preceding summer and we all laughed with him at ourselves.
"All the same," muttered Peter, "I don't want to have another
experience like that. I hope I'll be dead the next time the Judgment
"But you'll be raised up for it," said Felix.
"Oh, that'll be all right. I won't mind that. I won't know
anything about it till it really happens. It's the expecting it that's
"I don't think you ought to talk of such things," said Felicity.
When evening came we all went to Golden Milestone. We knew the
Awkward Man and his bride were expected home at sunset, and we meant to
scatter flowers on the path by which she must enter her new home. It
was the Story Girl's idea, but I don't think Aunt Janet would have let
us go if Uncle Blair had not pleaded for us. He asked to be taken
along, too, and we agreed, if he would stand out of sight when the
newly married pair came home.
"You see, father, the Awkward Man won't mind us, because we're only
children and he knows us well," explained the Story Girl, "but if he
sees you, a stranger, it might confuse him and we might spoil the
homecoming, and that would be such a pity."
So we went to Golden Milestone, laden with all the flowery spoil we
could plunder from both gardens. It was a clear amber-tinted September
evening and far away, over Markdale Harbour, a great round red moon was
rising as we waited. Uncle Blair was hidden behind the wind-blown
tassels of the pines at the gate, but he and the Story Girl kept waving
their hands at each other and calling out gay, mirthful jests.
"Do you really feel acquainted with your father?" whispered Sara
Ray wonderingly. "It's long since you saw him."
"If I hadn't seen him for a hundred years it wouldn't make any
difference that way," laughed the Story Girl.
"S-s-h-s-s-h--they're coming," whispered Felicity excitedly.
And then they came--Beautiful Alice blushing and lovely, in the
prettiest of pretty blue dresses, and the Awkward Man, so fervently
happy that he quite forgot to be awkward. He lifted her out of the
buggy gallantly and led her forward to us, smiling. We retreated
before them, scattering our flowers lavishly on the path, and Alice
Dale walked to the very doorstep of her new home over a carpet of
blossoms. On the step they both paused and turned towards us, and we
shyly did the proper thing in the way of congratulations and good
"It was so sweet of you to do this," said the smiling bride.
"It was lovely to be able to do it for you, dearest," whispered the
Story Girl, "and oh, Miss Reade--Mrs. Dale, I mean--we all hope you'll
be so, so happy for ever."
"I am sure I shall," said Alice Dale, turning to her husband. He
looked down into her eyes--and we were quite forgotten by both of them.
We saw it, and slipped away, while Jasper Dale drew his wife into
their home and shut the world out.
We scampered joyously away through the moonlit dusk. Uncle Blair
joined us at the gate and the Story Girl asked him what he thought of
"When she dies white violets will grow out of her dust," he
"Uncle Blair says even queerer things than the Story Girl,"
Felicity whispered to me.
And so that beautiful day went away from us, slipping through our
fingers as we tried to hold it. It hooded itself in shadows and fared
forth on the road that is lighted by the white stars of evening. It
had been a gift of Paradise. Its hours had all been fair and beloved.
From dawn flush to fall of night there had been naught to mar it. It
took with it its smiles and laughter. But it left the boon of memory.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE OLD ORDER
"I am going away with father when he goes. He is going to spend
the winter in Paris, and I am to go to school there."
The Story Girl told us this one day in the orchard. There was a
little elation in her tone, but more regret. The news was not a great
surprise to us. We had felt it in the air ever since Uncle Blair's
arrival. Aunt Janet had been very unwilling to let the Story Girl go.
But Uncle Blair was inexorable. It was time, he said, that she should
go to a better school than the little country one in Carlisle; and
besides, he did not want her to grow into womanhood a stranger to him.
So it was finally decided that she was to go.
"Just think, you are going to Europe," said Sara Ray in an awe-
struck tone. "Won't that be splendid!"
"I suppose I'll like it after a while," said the Story Girl slowly,
"but I know I'll be dreadfully homesick at first. Of course, it will
be lovely to be with father, but oh, I'll miss the rest of you so
"Just think how WE'LL miss YOU," sighed Cecily. "It will be so
lonesome here this winter, with you and Peter both gone. Oh, dear, I
do wish things didn't have to change."
Felicity said nothing. She kept looking down at the grass on which
she sat, absently pulling at the slender blades. Presently we saw two
big tears roll down over her cheeks. The Story Girl looked surprised.
"Are you crying because I'm going away, Felicity?" she asked.
"Of course I am," answered Felicity, with a big sob. "Do you think
I've no f-f-eeling?"
"I didn't think you'd care much," said the Story Girl frankly.
"You've never seemed to like me very much."
"I d-don't wear my h-heart on my sleeve," said poor Felicity, with
an attempt at dignity. "I think you m-might stay. Your father would
let you s-stay if you c-coaxed him."
"Well, you see I'd have to go some time," sighed the Story Girl,
"and the longer it was put off the harder it would be. But I do feel
dreadfully about it. I can't even take poor Paddy. I'll have to leave
him behind, and oh, I want you all to promise to be kind to him for my
We all solemnly assured her that we would.
"I'll g-give him cream every m-morning and n-night," sobbed
Felicity, "but I'll never be able to look at him without crying. He'll
make me think of you."
"Well, I'm not going right away," said the Story Girl, more
cheerfully. "Not till the last of October. So we have over a month
yet to have a good time in. Let's all just determine to make it a
splendid month for the last. We won't think about my going at all till
we have to, and we won't have any quarrels among us, and we'll just
enjoy ourselves all we possibly can. So don't cry any more, Felicity.
I'm awfully glad you do like me and am sorry I'm going away, but let's
all forget it for a month."
Felicity sighed, and tucked away her damp handkerchief.
"It isn't so easy for me to forget things, but I'll try," she said
disconsolately, "and if you want any more cooking lessons before you go
I'll be real glad to teach you anything I know."
This was a high plane of self-sacrifice for Felicity to attain.
But the Story Girl shook her head.
"No, I'm not going to bother my head about cooking lessons this
last month. It's too vexing."
"Do you remember the time you made the pudding--" began Peter, and
"Out of sawdust?" finished the Story Girl cheerfully. "You needn't
be afraid to mention it to me after this. I don't mind any more. I
begin to see the fun of it now. I should think I do remember it--and
the time I baked the bread before it was raised enough."
"People have made worse mistakes than that," said Felicity kindly.
"Such as using tooth-powd--" but here Dan stopped abruptly,
remembering the Story Girl's plea for a beautiful month. Felicity
coloured, but said nothing--did not even LOOK anything.
"We HAVE had lots of fun together one way or another," said Cecily,
"Just think how much we've laughed this last year or so," said the
Story Girl. "We've had good times together; but I think we'll have
lots more splendid years ahead."
"Eden is always behind us--Paradise always before," said Uncle
Blair, coming up in time to hear her. He said it with a sigh that was
immediately lost in one of his delightful smiles.
"I like Uncle Blair so much better than I expected to," Felicity
confided to me. "Mother says he's a rolling stone, but there really is
something very nice about him, although he says a great many things I
don't understand. I suppose the Story Girl will have a very gay time
"She's going to school and she'll have to study hard," I said.
"She says she's going to study for the stage," said Felicity.
"Uncle Roger thinks it is all right, and says she'll be very famous
some day. But mother thinks it's dreadful, and so do I."
"Aunt Julia is a concert singer," I said.
"Oh, that's very different. But I hope poor Sara will get on all
right," sighed Felicity. "You never know what may happen to a person
in those foreign countries. And everybody says Paris is such a wicked
place. But we must hope for the best," she concluded in a resigned
That evening the Story Girl and I drove the cows to pasture after
milking, and when we came home we sought out Uncle Blair in the
orchard. He was sauntering up and down Uncle Stephen's Walk, his hands
clasped behind him and his beautiful, youthful face uplifted to the
western sky where waves of night were breaking on a dim primrose shore
"See that star over there in the south-west?" he said, as we joined
him. "The one just above that pine? An evening star shining over a
dark pine tree is the whitest thing in the universe--because it is
LIVING whiteness--whiteness possessing a soul. How full this old
orchard is of twilight! Do you know, I have been trysting here with
"The Family Ghost?" I asked, very stupidly.
"No, not the Family Ghost. I never saw beautiful, broken-hearted
Emily yet. Your mother saw her once, Sara--that was a strange thing,"
he added absently, as if to himself.
"Did mother really see her?" whispered the Story Girl.
"Well, she always believed she did. Who knows?"
"Do you think there are such things as ghosts, Uncle Blair?" I
"I never saw any, Beverley."
"But you said you were trysting with ghosts here this evening,"
said the Story Girl.
"Oh, yes--the ghosts of the old years. I love this orchard
because of its many ghosts. We are good comrades, those ghosts and I;
we walk and talk--we even laugh together--sorrowful laughter that has
sorrow's own sweetness. And always there comes to me one dear phantom
and wanders hand in hand with me--a lost lady of the old years."
"My mother?" said the Story Girl very softly.
"Yes, your mother. Here, in her old haunts, it is impossible for
me to believe that she can be dead--that her LAUGHTER can be dead. She
was the gayest, sweetest thing--and so young--only three years older
than you, Sara. Yonder old house had been glad because of her for
eighteen years when I met her first."
"I wish I could remember her," said the Story Girl, with a little
sigh. "I haven't even a picture of her. Why didn't you paint one,
"She would never let me. She had some queer, funny, half-playful,
half-earnest superstition about it. But I always meant to when she
would become willing to let me. And then--she died. Her twin brother
Felix died the same day. There was something strange about that, too.
I was holding her in my arms and she was looking up at me; suddenly
she looked past me and gave a little start. 'Felix!' she said. For a
moment she trembled and then she smiled and looked up at me again a
little beseechingly. 'Felix has come for me, dear,' she said. 'We
were always together before you came--you must not mind--you must be
glad I do not have to go alone.' Well, who knows? But she left me,
Sara--she left me."
There was that in Uncle Blair's voice that kept us silent for a
time. Then the Story Girl said, still very softly:
"What did mother look like, father? I don't look the least little
bit like her, do I?"
"No, I wish you did, you brown thing. Your mother's face was as
white as a wood-lily, with only a faint dream of rose in her cheeks.
She had the eyes of one who always had a song in her heart--blue as a
mist, those eyes were. She had dark lashes, and a little red mouth
that quivered when she was very sad or very happy like a crimson rose
too rudely shaken by the wind. She was as slim and lithe as a young,
white-stemmed birch tree. How I loved her! How happy we were! But he
who accepts human love must bind it to his soul with pain, and she is
not lost to me. Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we
Uncle Blair looked up at the evening star. We saw that he had
forgotten us, and we slipped away, hand in hand, leaving him alone in
the memory-haunted shadows of the old orchard.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PATH TO ARCADY
October that year gathered up all the spilled sunshine of the
summer and clad herself in it as in a garment. The Story Girl had
asked us to try to make the last month together beautiful, and Nature
seconded our efforts, giving us that most beautiful of beautiful
things--a gracious and perfect moon of falling leaves. There was not
in all that vanished October one day that did not come in with auroral
splendour and go out attended by a fair galaxy of evening stars--not a
day when there were not golden lights in the wide pastures and purple
hazes in the ripened distances. Never was anything so gorgeous as the
maple trees that year. Maples are trees that have primeval fire in
their souls. It glows out a little in their early youth, before the
leaves open, in the redness and rosy-yellowness of their blossoms, but
in summer it is carefully hidden under a demure, silver-lined
greenness. Then when autumn comes, the maples give up trying to be
sober and flame out in all the barbaric splendour and gorgeousness of
their real nature, making of the hills things out of an Arabian Nights
dream in the golden prime of good Haroun Alraschid.
You may never know what scarlet and crimson really are until you
see them in their perfection on an October hillside, under the
unfathomable blue of an autumn sky. All the glow and radiance and joy
at earth's heart seem to have broken loose in a splendid determination
to express itself for once before the frost of winter chills her
beating pulses. It is the year's carnival ere the dull Lenten days of
leafless valleys and penitential mists come.
The time of apple-picking had come around once more and we worked
joyously. Uncle Blair picked apples with us, and between him and the
Story Girl it was an October never to be forgotten.
"Will you go far afield for a walk with me to-day?" he said to her
and me, one idle afternoon of opal skies, pied meadows and misty hills.
It was Saturday and Peter had gone home; Felix and Dan were helping
Uncle Alec top turnips; Cecily and Felicity were making cookies for
Sunday, so the Story Girl and I were alone in Uncle Stephen's Walk.
We liked to be alone together that last month, to think the long,
long thoughts of youth and talk about our futures. There had grown up
between us that summer a bond of sympathy that did not exist between us
and the others. We were older than they--the Story Girl was fifteen
and I was nearly that; and all at once it seemed as if we were
immeasurably older than the rest, and possessed of dreams and visions
and forward-reaching hopes which they could not possibly share or
understand. At times we were still children, still interested in
childish things. But there came hours when we seemed to our two selves
very grown up and old, and in those hours we talked our dreams and
visions and hopes, vague and splendid, as all such are, over together,
and so began to build up, out of the rainbow fragments of our
childhood's companionship, that rare and beautiful friendship which was
to last all our lives, enriching and enstarring them. For there is no
bond more lasting than that formed by the mutual confidences of that
magic time when youth is slipping from the sheath of childhood and
beginning to wonder what lies for it beyond those misty hills that
bound the golden road.
"Where are you going?" asked the Story Girl.
"To 'the woods that belt the gray hillside'--ay, and overflow
beyond it into many a valley purple-folded in immemorial peace,"
answered Uncle Blair. "I have a fancy for one more ramble in Prince
Edward Island woods before I leave Canada again. But I would not go
alone. So come, you two gay youthful things to whom all life is yet
fair and good, and we will seek the path to Arcady. There will be many
little things along our way to make us glad. Joyful sounds will 'come
ringing down the wind;' a wealth of gypsy gold will be ours for the
gathering; we will learn the potent, unutterable charm of a dim spruce
wood and the grace of flexile mountain ashes fringing a lonely glen; we
will tryst with the folk of fur and feather; we'll hearken to the music
of gray old firs. Come, and you'll have a ramble and an afternoon that
you will both remember all your lives."
We did have it; never has its remembrance faded; that idyllic
afternoon of roving in the old Carlisle woods with the Story Girl and
Uncle Blair gleams in my book of years, a page of living beauty. Yet
it was but a few hours of simplest pleasure; we wandered pathlessly
through the sylvan calm of those dear places which seemed that day to
be full of a great friendliness; Uncle Blair sauntered along behind us,
whistling softly; sometimes he talked to himself; we delighted in those
brief reveries of his; Uncle Blair was the only man I have ever known
who could, when he so willed, "talk like a book," and do it without
seeming ridiculous; perhaps it was because he had the knack of choosing
"fit audience, though few," and the proper time to appeal to that
We went across the fields, intending to skirt the woods at the back
of Uncle Alec's farm and find a lane that cut through Uncle Roger's
woods; but before we came to it we stumbled on a sly, winding little
path quite by accident--if, indeed, there can be such a thing as
accident in the woods, where I am tempted to think we are led by the
Good People along such of their fairy ways as they have a mind for us
to walk in.
"Go to, let us explore this," said Uncle Blair. "It always drags
terribly at my heart to go past a wood lane if I can make any excuse at
all for traversing it: for it is the by-ways that lead to the heart of
the woods and we must follow them if we would know the forest and be
known of it. When we can really feel its wild heart beating against
ours its subtle life will steal into our veins and make us its own for
ever, so that no matter where we go or how wide we wander in the noisy
ways of cities or over the lone ways of the sea, we shall yet be drawn
back to the forest to find our most enduring kinship."
"I always feel so SATISFIED in the woods," said the Story Girl
dreamily, as we turned in under the low-swinging fir boughs. "Trees
seem such friendly things."
"They are the most friendly things in God's good creation," said
Uncle Blair emphatically. "And it is so easy to live with them. To
hold converse with pines, to whisper secrets with the poplars, to
listen to the tales of old romance that beeches have to tell, to walk
in eloquent silence with self-contained firs, is to learn what real
companionship is. Besides, trees are the same all over the world. A
beech tree on the slopes of the Pyrenees is just what a beech tree here
in these Carlisle woods is; and there used to be an old pine hereabouts
whose twin brother I was well acquainted with in a dell among the
Apennines. Listen to those squirrels, will you, chattering over
yonder. Did you ever hear such a fuss over nothing? Squirrels are the
gossips and busybodies of the woods; they haven't learned the fine
reserve of its other denizens. But after all, there is a certain
shrill friendliness in their greeting."
"They seem to be scolding us," I said, laughing.
"Oh, they are not half such scolds as they sound," answered Uncle
Blair gaily. "If they would but 'tak a thought and mend ' their
shrew-like ways they would be dear, lovable creatures enough."
"If I had to be an animal I think I'd like to be a squirrel," said
the Story Girl. "It must be next best thing to flying."
"Just see what a spring that fellow gave," laughed Uncle Blair.
"And now listen to his song of triumph! I suppose that chasm he
cleared seemed as wide and deep to him as Niagara Gorge would to us if
we leaped over it. Well, the wood people are a happy folk and very
well satisfied with themselves."
Those who have followed a dim, winding, balsamic path to the
unexpected hollow where a wood-spring lies have found the rarest secret
the forest can reveal. Such was our good fortune that day. At the end
of our path we found it, under the pines, a crystal- clear thing with
lips unkissed by so much as a stray sunbeam.
"It is easy to dream that this is one of the haunted springs of old
romance," said Uncle Blair. "'Tis an enchanted spot this, I am very
sure, and we should go softly, speaking low, lest we disturb the rest
of a white, wet naiad, or break some spell that has cost long years of
"It's so easy to believe things in the woods," said the Story Girl,
shaping a cup from a bit of golden-brown birch bark and filling it at
"Drink a toast in that water, Sara," said Uncle Blair. "There's
not a doubt that it has some potent quality of magic in it and the wish
you wish over it will come true."
The Story Girl lifted her golden-hued flagon to her red lips. Her
hazel eyes laughed at us over the brim.
"Here's to our futures," she cried, "I wish that every day of our
lives may be better than the one that went before."
"An extravagant wish--a very wish of youth," commented Uncle Blair,
"and yet in spite of its extravagance, a wish that will come true if
you are true to yourselves. In that case, every day WILL be better
than all that went before--but there will be many days, dear lad and
lass, when you will not believe it."
We did not understand him, but we knew Uncle Blair never explained
his meaning. When asked it he was wont to answer with a smile, "Some
day you'll grow to it. Wait for that." So we addressed ourselves to
follow the brook that stole away from the spring in its windings and
doublings and tricky surprises.
"A brook," quoth Uncle Blair, "is the most changeful, bewitching,
lovable thing in the world. It is never in the same mind or mood two
minutes. Here it is sighing and murmuring as if its heart were broken.
But listen--yonder by the birches it is laughing as if it were
enjoying some capital joke all by itself."
It was indeed a changeful brook; here it would make a pool, dark
and brooding and still, where we bent to look at our mirrored faces;
then it grew communicative and gossiped shallowly over a broken pebble
bed where there was a diamond dance of sunbeams and no troutling or
minnow could glide through without being seen. Sometimes its banks
were high and steep, hung with slender ashes and birches; again they
were mere, low margins, green with delicate mosses, shelving out of the
wood. Once it came to a little precipice and flung itself over
undauntedly in an indignation of foam, gathering itself up rather
dizzily among the mossy stones below. It was some time before it got
over its vexation; it went boiling and muttering along, fighting with
the rotten logs that lie across it, and making far more fuss than was
necessary over every root that interfered with it. We were getting
tired of its ill-humour and talked of leaving it, when it suddenly grew
sweet-tempered again, swooped around a curve--and presto, we were in
It was a little dell far in the heart of the woods. A row of
birches fringed the brook, and each birch seemed more exquisitely
graceful and golden than her sisters. The woods receded from it on
every hand, leaving it lying in a pool of amber sunshine. The yellow
trees were mirrored in the placid stream, with now and then a leaf
falling on the water, mayhap to drift away and be used, as Uncle Blair
suggested, by some adventurous wood sprite who had it in mind to fare
forth to some far-off, legendary region where all the brooks ran into
"Oh, what a lovely place!" I exclaimed, looking around me with
"A spell of eternity is woven over it, surely," murmured Uncle
Blair. "Winter may not touch it, or spring ever revisit it. It should
be like this for ever."
"Let us never come here again," said the Story Girl softly, "never,
no matter how often we may be in Carlisle. Then we will never see it
changed or different. We can always remember it just as we see it now,
and it will be like this for ever for us."
"I'm going to sketch it," said Uncle Blair.
While he sketched it the Story Girl and I sat on the banks of the
brook and she told me the story of the Sighing Reed. It was a very
simple little story, that of the slender brown reed which grew by the
forest pool and always was sad and sighing because it could not utter
music like the brook and the birds and the winds. All the bright,
beautiful things around it mocked it and laughed at it for its folly.
Who would ever look for music in it, a plain, brown, unbeautiful
thing? But one day a youth came through the wood; he was as beautiful
as the spring; he cut the brown reed and fashioned it according to his
liking; and then he put it to his lips and breathed on it; and, oh, the
music that floated through the forest! It was so entrancing that
everything--brooks and birds and winds--grew silent to listen to it.
Never had anything so lovely been heard; it was the music that had for
so long been shut up in the soul of the sighing reed and was set free
at last through its pain and suffering.
I had heard the Story Girl tell many a more dramatic tale; but that
one stands out for me in memory above them all, partly, perhaps,
because of the spot in which she told it, partly because it was the
last one I was to hear her tell for many years--the last one she was
ever to tell me on the golden road.
When Uncle Blair had finished his sketch the shafts of sunshine
were turning crimson and growing more and more remote; the early autumn
twilight was falling over the woods. We left our dell, saying good-bye
to it for ever, as the Story Girl had suggested, and we went slowly
homeward through the fir woods, where a haunting, indescribable odour
stole out to meet us.
"There is magic in the scent of dying fir," Uncle Blair was saying
aloud to himself, as if forgetting he was not quite alone. "It gets
into our blood like some rare, subtly-compounded wine, and thrills us
with unutterable sweetnesses, as of recollections from some other
fairer life, lived in some happier star. Compared to it, all other
scents seem heavy and earth-born, luring to the valleys instead of the
heights. But the tang of the fir summons onward and upward to some
'far-off, divine event'--some spiritual peak of attainment whence we
shall see with unfaltering, unclouded vision the spires of some aerial
City Beautiful, or the fulfilment of some fair, fadeless land of
He was silent for a moment, then added in a lower tone,
"Felicity, you loved the scent of dying fir. If you were here
tonight with me--Felicity--Felicity!"
Something in his voice made me suddenly sad. I was comforted when
I felt the Story Girl slip her hand into mine. So we walked out of the
woods into the autumn dusk.
We were in a little valley. Half-way up the opposite slope a brush
fire was burning clearly and steadily in a maple grove. There was
something indescribably alluring in that fire, glowing so redly against
the dark background of forest and twilit hill.
"Let us go to it," cried Uncle Blair, gaily, casting aside his
sorrowful mood and catching our hands. "A wood fire at night has a
fascination not to be resisted by those of mortal race. Hasten-- we
must not lose time."
"Oh, it will burn a long time yet," I gasped, for Uncle Blair was
whisking us up the hill at a merciless rate.
"You can't be sure. It may have been lighted by some good, honest
farmer-man, bent on tidying up his sugar orchard, but it may also, for
anything we know, have been kindled by no earthly woodman as a beacon
or summons to the tribes of fairyland, and may vanish away if we
It did not vanish and presently we found ourselves in the grove.
It was very beautiful; the fire burned with a clear, steady glow and a
soft crackle; the long arcades beneath the trees were illuminated with
a rosy radiance, beyond which lurked companies of gray and purple
shadows. Everything was very still and dreamy and remote.
"It is impossible that out there, just over the hill, lies a
village of men, where tame household lamps are shining," said Uncle
"I feel as if we must be thousands of miles away from everything
we've ever known," murmured the Story Girl.
"So you are!" said Uncle Blair emphatically. "You're back in the
youth of the race--back in the beguilement of the young world.
Everything is in this hour--the beauty of classic myths, the primal
charm of the silent and the open, the lure of mystery. Why, it's a
time and place when and where everything might come true--when the men
in green might creep out to join hands and dance around the fire, or
dryads steal from their trees to warm their white limbs, grown chilly
in October frosts, by the blaze. I wouldn't be much surprised if we
should see something of the kind. Isn't that the flash of an ivory
shoulder through yonder gloom? And didn't you see a queer little elfin
face peering at us around that twisted gray trunk? But one can't be
sure. Mortal eyesight is too slow and clumsy a thing to match against
the flicker of a pixy-litten fire."
Hand in hand we wandered through that enchanted place, seeking the
folk of elf-land, "and heard their mystic voices calling, from fairy
knoll and haunted hill." Not till the fire died down into ashes did we
leave the grove. Then we found that the full moon was gleaming
lustrously from a cloudless sky across the valley. Between us and her
stretched up a tall pine, wondrously straight and slender and
branchless to its very top, where it overflowed in a crest of dark
boughs against the silvery splendour behind it. Beyond, the hill farms
were lying in a suave, white radiance.
"Doesn't it seem a long, long time to you since we left home this
afternoon?" asked the Story Girl. "And yet it is only a few hours."
Only a few hours--true; yet such hours were worth a cycle of common
years untouched by the glory and the dream.
CHAPTER XXIX. WE LOSE A FRIEND
Our beautiful October was marred by one day of black tragedy--the
day Paddy died. For Paddy, after seven years of as happy a life as
ever a cat lived, died suddenly--of poison, as was supposed. Where he
had wandered in the darkness to meet his doom we did not know, but in
the frosty dawnlight he dragged himself home to die. We found him
lying on the doorstep when we got up, and it did not need Aunt Janet's
curt announcement, or Uncle Blair's reluctant shake of the head, to
tell us that there was no chance of our pet recovering this time. We
felt that nothing could be done. Lard and sulphur on his paws would be
of no use, nor would any visit to Peg Bowen avail. We stood around in
mournful silence; the Story Girl sat down on the step and took poor
Paddy upon her lap.
"I s'pose there's no use even in praying now," said Cecily
"It wouldn't do any harm to try," sobbed Felicity.
"You needn't waste your prayers," said Dan mournfully, "Pat is
beyond human aid. You can tell that by his eyes. Besides, I don't
believe it was the praying cured him last time."
"No, it was Peg Bowen," declared Peter, "but she couldn't have
bewitched him this time for she's been away for months, nobody knows
"If he could only TELL us where he feels the worst!" said Cecily
piteously. "It's so dreadful to see him suffering and not be able to
do a single thing to help him!"
"I don't think he's suffering much now," I said comfortingly.
The Story Girl said nothing. She passed and repassed her long
brown hand gently over her pet's glossy fur. Pat lifted his head and
essayed to creep a little nearer to his beloved mistress. The Story
Girl drew his limp body close in her arms. There was a plaintive
little mew--a long quiver--and Paddy's friendly soul had fared forth to
wherever it is that good cats go.
"Well, he's gone," said Dan, turning his back abruptly to us.
"It doesn't seem as if it can be true," sobbed Cecily. "This time
yesterday morning he was full of life."
"He drank two full saucers of cream," moaned Felicity, "and I saw
him catch a mouse in the evening. Maybe it was the last one he ever
"He did for many a mouse in his day," said Peter, anxious to pay
his tribute to the departed.
"'He was a cat--take him for all in all. We shall not look upon
his like again,'" quoted Uncle Blair.
Felicity and Cecily and Sara Ray cried so much that Aunt Janet lost
patience completely and told them sharply that they would have
something to cry for some day--which did not seem to comfort them much.
The Story Girl shed no tears, though the look in her eyes hurt more
"After all, perhaps it's for the best," she said drearily. "I've
been feeling so badly over having to go away and leave Paddy. No
matter how kind you'd all be to him I know he'd miss me terribly. He
wasn't like most cats who don't care who comes and goes as long as they
get plenty to eat. Paddy wouldn't have been contented without me."
"Oh, no-o-o, oh, no-o-o," wailed Sara Ray lugubriously.
Felix shot a disgusted glance at her.
"I don't see what YOU are making such a fuss about," he said
unfeelingly. "He wasn't your cat."
"But I l-l-oved him," sobbed Sara, "and I always feel bad when my
"I wish we could believe that cats went to heaven, like people,"
sighed Cecily. "Do you really think it isn't possible?"
Uncle Blair shook his head.
"I'm afraid not. I'd like to think cats have a chance for heaven,
but I can't. There's nothing heavenly about cats, delightful creatures
though they are."
"Blair, I'm really surprised to hear the things you say to the
children," said Aunt Janet severely.
"Surely you wouldn't prefer me to tell them that cats DO go to
heaven," protested Uncle Blair.
"I think it's wicked to carry on about an animal as those children
do," answered Aunt Janet decidedly, "and you shouldn't encourage them.
Here now, children, stop making a fuss. Bury that cat and get off to
your apple picking."
We had to go to our work, but Paddy was not to be buried in any
such off-hand fashion as that. It was agreed that we should bury him
in the orchard at sunset that evening, and Sara Ray, who had to go
home, declared she would be back for it, and implored us to wait for
her if she didn't come exactly on time.
"I mayn't be able to get away till after milking," she sniffed,
"but I don't want to miss it. Even a cat's funeral is better than none
"Horrid thing!" said Felicity, barely waiting until Sara was out of
We worked with heavy hearts that day; the girls cried bitterly most
of the time and we boys whistled defiantly. But as evening drew on we
began to feel a sneaking interest in the details of the funeral. As
Dan said, the thing should be done properly, since Paddy was no common
cat. The Story Girl selected the spot for the grave, in a little
corner behind the cherry copse, where early violets enskied the grass
in spring, and we boys dug the grave, making it "soft and narrow," as
the heroine of the old ballad wanted hers made. Sara Ray, who managed
to come in time after all, and Felicity stood and watched us, but
Cecily and the Story Girl kept far aloof.
"This time last night you never thought you'd be digging Pat's
grave to-night," sighed Felicity.
"We little k-know what a day will bring forth," sobbed Sara. "I've
heard the minister say that and it is true."
"Of course it's true. It's in the Bible; but I don't think you
should repeat it in connection with a cat," said Felicity dubiously.
When all was in readiness the Story Girl brought her pet through
the orchard where he had so often frisked and prowled. No useless
coffin enclosed his breast but he reposed in a neat cardboard box.
"I wonder if it would be right to say 'ashes to ashes and dust to
dust,'" said Peter.
"No, it wouldn't," averred Felicity. "It would be real wicked."
"I think we ought to sing a hymn, anyway," asseverated Sara Ray.
"Well, we might do that, if it isn't a very religious one,"
"How would 'Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore,' do?"
asked Cecily. "That never seemed to me a very religious hymn."
"But it doesn't seem very appropriate to a funeral occasion
either," said Felicity.
"I think 'Lead, kindly light,' would be ever so much more
suitable," suggested Sara Ray, "and it is kind of soothing and
"We are not going to sing anything," said the Story Girl coldly.
"Do you want to make the affair ridiculous? We will just fill up the
grave quietly and put a flat stone over the top."
"It isn't much like my idea of a funeral," muttered Sara Ray
"Never mind, we're going to have a real obituary about him in Our
Magazine," whispered Cecily consolingly.
"And Peter is going to cut his name on top of the stone," added
Felicity. "Only we mustn't let on to the grown-ups until it is done,
because they might say it wasn't right."
We left the orchard, a sober little band, with the wind of the gray
twilight blowing round us. Uncle Roger passed us at the gate.
"So the last sad obsequies are over?" he remarked with a grin.
And we hated Uncle Roger. But we loved Uncle Blair because he said
"And so you've buried your little comrade?"
So much may depend on the way a thing is said. But not even Uncle
Blair's sympathy could take the sting out of the fact that there was no
Paddy to get the froth that night at milking time. Felicity cried
bitterly all the time she was straining the milk. Many human beings
have gone to their graves unattended by as much real regret as followed
that one gray pussy cat to his.
CHAPTER XXX. PROPHECIES
"Here's a letter for you from father," said Felix, tossing it to me
as he came through the orchard gate. We had been picking apples all
day, but were taking a mid-afternoon rest around the well, with a cup
of its sparkling cold water to refresh us.
I opened the letter rather indifferently, for father, with all his
excellent and lovable traits, was but a poor correspondent; his letters
were usually very brief and very unimportant.
This letter was brief enough, but it was freighted with a message
of weighty import. I sat gazing stupidly at the sheet after I had read
it until Felix exclaimed,
"Bev, what's the matter with you? What's in that letter?"
"Father is coming home," I said dazedly. "He is to leave South
America in a fortnight and will be here in November to take us back to
Everybody gasped. Sara Ray, of course, began to cry, which
aggravated me unreasonably.
"Well," said Felix, when he got his second wind, "I'll be awful
glad to see father again, but I tell you I don't like the thought of
I felt exactly the same but, in view of Sara Ray's tears, admit it
I would not; so I sat in grum silence while the other tongues wagged.
"If I were not going away myself I'd feel just terrible," said the
Story Girl. "Even as it is I'm real sorry. I'd like to be able to
think of you as all here together when I'm gone, having good times and
writing me about them."
"It'll be awfully dull when you fellows go," muttered Dan.
"I'm sure I don't know what we're ever going to do here this
winter," said Felicity, with the calmness of despair.
"Thank goodness there are no more fathers to come back," breathed
Cecily with a vicious earnestness that made us all laugh, even in the
midst of our dismay.
We worked very half-heartedly the rest of the day, and it was not
until we assembled in the orchard in the evening that our spirits
recovered something like their wonted level. It was clear and slightly
frosty; the sun had declined behind a birch on a distant hill and it
seemed a tree with a blazing heart of fire. The great golden willow at
the lane gate was laughter-shaken in the wind of evening. Even amid
all the changes of our shifting world we could not be hopelessly
low-spirited--except Sara Ray, who was often so, and Peter, who was
rarely so. But Peter had been sorely vexed in spirit for several days.
The time was approaching for the October issue of Our Magazine and he
had no genuine fiction ready for it. He had taken so much to heart
Felicity's taunt that his stories were all true that he had determined
to have a really-truly false one in the next number. But the
difficulty was to get anyone to write it. He had asked the Story Girl
to do it, but she refused; then he appealed to me and I shirked.
Finally Peter determined to write a story himself.
"It oughtn't to be any harder than writing a poem and I managed
that," he said dolefully.
He worked at it in the evenings in the granary loft, and the rest
of us forebore to question him concerning it, because he evidently
disliked talking about his literary efforts. But this evening I had to
ask him if he would soon have it ready, as I wanted to make up the
"It's done," said Peter, with an air of gloomy triumph. "It don't
amount to much, but anyhow I made it all out of my own head. Not one
word of it was ever printed or told before, and nobody can say there
"Then I guess we have all the stuff in and I'll have Our Magazine
ready to read by tomorrow night," I said.
"I s'pose it will be the last one we'll have," sighed Cecily. "We
can't carry it on after you all go, and it has been such fun."
"Bev will be a real newspaper editor some day," declared the Story
Girl, on whom the spirit of prophecy suddenly descended that night.
She was swinging on the bough of an apple tree, with a crimson
shawl wrapped about her head, and her eyes were bright with roguish
"How do you know he will?" asked Felicity.
"Oh, I can tell futures," answered the Story Girl mysteriously. "I
know what's going to happen to all of you. Shall I tell you?"
"Do, just for the fun of it," I said. "Then some day we'll know
just how near you came to guessing right. Go on. What else about me?"
"You'll write books, too, and travel all over the world," continued
the Story Girl. "Felix will be fat to the end of his life, and he will
be a grandfather before he is fifty, and he will wear a long black
"I won't," cried Felix disgustedly. "I hate whiskers. Maybe I
can't help the grandfather part, but I CAN help having a beard."
"You can't. It's written in the stars."
"'Tain't. The stars can't prevent me from shaving."
"Won't Grandpa Felix sound awful funny?" reflected Felicity.
"Peter will be a minister," went on the Story Girl.
"Well, I might be something worse," remarked Peter, in a not
"Dan will be a farmer and will marry a girl whose name begins with
K and he will have eleven children. And he'll vote Grit."
"I won't," cried scandalized Dan. "You don't know a thing about
it. Catch ME ever voting Grit! As for the rest of it--I don't care.
Farming's well enough, though I'd rather be a sailor."
"Don't talk such nonsense," protested Felicity sharply. "What on
earth do you want to be a sailor for and be drowned?"
"All sailors aren't drowned," said Dan.
"Most of them are. Look at Uncle Stephen."
"You ain't sure he was drowned."
"Well, he disappeared, and that is worse."
"How do you know? Disappearing might be real easy."
"It's not very easy for your family."
"Hush, let's hear the rest of the predictions," said Cecily.
"Felicity," resumed the Story Girl gravely, "will marry a
Sara Ray giggled and Felicity blushed. Peter tried hard not to
look too self-consciously delighted.
"She will be a perfect housekeeper and will teach a Sunday School
class and be very happy all her life."
"Will her husband be happy?" queried Dan solemnly.
"I guess he'll be as happy as your wife," retorted Felicity
"He'll be the happiest man in the world," declared Peter warmly.
"What about me?" asked Sara Ray.
The Story Girl looked rather puzzled. It was so hard to imagine
Sara Ray as having any kind of future. Yet Sara was plainly anxious to
have her fortune told and must be gratified.
"You'll be married," said the Story Girl recklessly, "and you'll
live to be nearly a hundred years old, and go to dozens of funerals and
have a great many sick spells. You will learn not to cry after you are
seventy; but your husband will never go to church."
"I'm glad you warned me," said Sara Ray solemnly, "because now I
know I'll make him promise before I marry him that he will go."
"He won't keep the promise," said the Story Girl, shaking her head.
"But it is getting cold and Cecily is coughing. Let us go in."
"You haven't told my fortune," protested Cecily disappointedly.
The Story Girl looked very tenderly at Cecily--at the smooth
little brown head, at the soft, shining eyes, at the cheeks that were
often over-rosy after slight exertion, at the little sunburned hands
that were always busy doing faithful work or quiet kindnesses. A very
strange look came over the Story Girl's face; her eyes grew sad and
far-reaching, as if of a verity they pierced beyond the mists of hidden
"I couldn't tell any fortune half good enough for you, dearest,"
she said, slipping her arm round Cecily. "You deserve everything good
and lovely. But you know I've only been in fun--of course I don't know
anything about what's going to happen to us."
"Perhaps you know more than you think for," said Sara Ray, who
seemed much pleased with her fortune and anxious to believe it, despite
the husband who wouldn't go to church.
"But I'd like to be told my fortune, even in fun," persisted
"Everybody you meet will love you as long as you live." said the
Story Girl. "There that's the very nicest fortune I can tell you, and
it will come true whether the others do or not, and now we must go in."
We went, Cecily still a little disappointed. In later years I
often wondered why the Story Girl refused to tell her fortune that
night. Did some strange gleam of foreknowledge fall for a moment
across her mirth-making? Did she realize in a flash of prescience that
there was no earthly future for our sweet Cecily? Not for her were to
be the lengthening shadows or the fading garland. The end was to come
while the rainbow still sparkled on her wine of life, ere a single
petal had fallen from her rose of joy. Long life was before all the
others who trysted that night in the old homestead orchard; but
Cecily's maiden feet were never to leave the golden road.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE LAST NUMBER OF
It is with heartfelt regret that we take up our pen to announce
that this will be the last number of Our Magazine. We have edited ten
numbers of it and it has been successful beyond our expectations. It
has to be discontinued by reason of circumstances over which we have no
control and not because we have lost interest in it. Everybody has
done his or her best for Our Magazine. Prince Edward Island expected
everyone to do his and her duty and everyone did it.
Mr. Dan King conducted the etiquette department in a way worthy of
the Family Guide itself. He is especially entitled to commendation
because he laboured under the disadvantage of having to furnish most of
the questions as well as the answers. Miss Felicity King has edited
our helpful household department very ably, and Miss Cecily King's
fashion notes were always up to date. The personal column was well
looked after by Miss Sara Stanley and the story page has been a marked
success under the able management of Mr. Peter Craig, to whose original
story in this issue, "The Battle of the Partridge Eggs," we would call
especial attention. The Exciting Adventure series has also been very
And now, in closing, we bid farewell to our staff and thank them
one and all for their help and co-operation in the past year. We have
enjoyed our work and we trust that they have too. We wish them all
happiness and success in years to come, and we hope that the
recollection of Our Magazine will not be held least dear among the
memories of their childhood.
(SOBS FROM THE GIRLS): "INDEED IT WON'T!"
On October eighteenth, Patrick Grayfur departed for that bourne
whence no traveller returns. He was only a cat, but he had been our
faithful friend for a long time and we aren't ashamed to be sorry for
him. There are lots of people who are not as friendly and gentlemanly
as Paddy was, and he was a great mouser. We buried all that was mortal
of poor Pat in the orchard and we are never going to forget him. We
have resolved that whenever the date of his death comes round we'll bow
our heads and pronounce his name at the hour of his funeral. If we are
anywhere where we can't say the name out loud we'll whisper it.
"Farewell, dearest Paddy, in all the years that are to be We'll
cherish your memory faithfully."
 The obituary was written by Mr. Felix King, but the two lines
of poetry were composed by Miss Sara Ray.
MY MOST EXCITING ADVENTURE
My most exciting adventure was the day I fell off Uncle Roger's
loft two years ago. I wasn't excited until it was all over because I
hadn't time to be. The Story Girl and I were looking for eggs in the
loft. It was filled with wheat straw nearly to the roof and it was an
awful distance from us to the floor. And wheat straw is so slippery.
I made a little spring and the straw slipped from under my feet and
there I was going head first down from the loft. It seemed to me I was
an awful long time falling, but the Story Girl says I couldn't have
been more than three seconds. But I know that I thought five thoughts
and there seemed to be quite a long time between them. The first thing
I thought was, what has happened, because I really didn't know at
first, it was so sudden. Then after a spell I thought the answer, I am
falling off the loft. And then I thought, what will happen to me when
I strike the floor, and after another little spell I thought, I'll be
killed. And then I thought, well, I don't care. I really wasn't a bit
frightened. I just was quite willing to be killed. If there hadn't
been a big pile of chaff on the barn floor these words would never have
been written. But there was and I fell on it and wasn't a bit hurt,
only my hair and mouth and eyes and ears got all full of chaff. The
strange part is that I wasn't a bit frightened when I thought I was
going to be killed, but after all the danger was over I was awfully
frightened and trembled so the Story Girl had to help me into the
THE BATTLE OF THE PARTRIDGE EGGS
Once upon a time there lived about half a mile from a forrest a
farmer and his wife and his sons and daughters and a granddaughter.
The farmer and his wife loved this little girl very much but she
caused them great trouble by running away into the woods and they often
spent haf days looking for her. One day she wondered further into the
forrest than usual and she begun to be hungry. Then night closed in.
She asked a fox where she could get something to eat. The fox told
her he knew where there was a partridges nest and a bluejays nest full
of eggs. So he led her to the nests and she took five eggs out of
each. When the birds came home they missed the eggs and flew into a
rage. The bluejay put on his topcoat and was going to the partridge
for law when he met the partridge coming to him. They lit up a fire
and commenced sining their deeds when they heard a tremendous howl
close behind them. They jumped up and put out the fire and were
immejutly attacked by five great wolves. The next day the little girl
was rambelling through the woods when they saw her and took her
prisoner. After she had confessed that she had stole the eggs they
told her to raise an army. They would have to fight over the nests of
eggs and whoever one would have the eggs. So the partridge raised a
great army of all kinds of birds except robins and the little girl got
all the robins and foxes and bees and wasps. And best of all the
little girl had a gun and plenty of ammunishun. The leader of her army
was a wolf. The result of the battle was that all the birds were
killed except the partridge and the bluejay and they were taken
prisoner and starved to death.
The little girl was then taken prisoner by a witch and cast into a
dunjun full of snakes where she died from their bites and people who
went through the forrest after that were taken prisoner by her ghost
and cast into the same dunjun where they died. About a year after the
wood turned into a gold castle and one morning everything had vanished
except a piece of a tree.
(DAN, WITH A WHISTLE:--"Well, I guess nobody can say Peter can't
write fiction after THAT."
SARA RAY, WIPING AWAY HER TEARS:--"It's a very interesting story,
but it ends SO sadly."
FELIX:--"What made you call it The Battle of the Partridge Eggs
when the bluejay had just as much to do with it?"
PETER, SHORTLY:--"Because it sounded better that way."
FELICITY:--"Did she eat the eggs raw?"
SARA RAY:--"Poor little thing, I suppose if you're starving you
can't be very particular."
CECILY, SIGHING:--"I wish you'd let her go home safe, Peter, and
not put her to such a cruel death."
BEVERLEY:--"I don't quite understand where the little girl got her
gun and ammunition."
PETER, SUSPECTING THAT HE IS BEING MADE FUN OF:--"If you could
write a better story, why didn't you? I give you the chance."
THE STORY GIRL, WITH A PRETERNATURALLY SOLEMN FACE:--"You shouldn't
criticize Peter's story like that. It's a fairy tale, you know, and
anything can happen in a fairy tale."
FELICITY:--"There isn't a word about fairies in it!"
CECILY:--"Besides, fairy tales always end nicely and this doesn't."
PETER, SULKILY:--"I wanted to punish her for running away from
DAN:--"Well, I guess you did it all right."
CECILY:--"Oh, well, it was very interesting, and that is all that
is really necessary in a story." )
Mr. Blair Stanley is visiting friends and relatives in Carlisle.
He intends returning to Europe shortly. His daughter, Miss Sara, will
Mr. Alan King is expected home from South America next month. His
sons will return with him to Toronto. Beverley and Felix have made
hosts of friends during their stay in Carlisle and will be much missed
in social circles.
The Mission Band of Carlisle Presbyterian Church completed their
missionary quilt last week. Miss Cecily King collected the largest sum
on her square. Congratulations, Cecily.
Mr. Peter Craig will be residing in Markdale after October and will
attend school there this winter. Peter is a good fellow and we all
wish him success and prosperity.
Apple picking is almost ended. There was an unusually heavy crop
this year. Potatoes, not so good.
Apple pies are the order of the day.
Eggs are a very good price now. Uncle Roger says it isn't fair to
have to pay as much for a dozen little eggs as a dozen big ones, but
they go just as far.
F-l-t-y. Is it considered good form to eat peppermints in church?
Ans.; No, not if a witch gives them to you.
No, F-l-x, we would not call Treasure Island or the Pilgrim's
Progress dime novels.
Yes, P-t-r, when you call on a young lady and her mother offers you
a slice of bread and jam it is quite polite for you to accept it.
Necklaces of roseberries are very much worn now.
It is considered smart to wear your school hat tilted over your
Bangs are coming in. Em Frewen has them. She went to Summerside
for a visit and came back with them. All the girls in school are going
to bang their hair as soon as their mothers will let them. But I do
not intend to bang mine.
(SARA RAY, DESPAIRINGLY:--"I know ma will never let ME have
D-n. What are details? C-l-y. I am not sure, but I think they
are things that are left over.
(CECILY, WONDERINGLY:--"I don't see why that was put among the
funny paragraphs. Shouldn't it have gone in the General Information
Old Mr. McIntyre's son on the Markdale Road had been very sick for
several years and somebody was sympathizing with him because his son
was going to die. "Oh," Mr. McIntyre said, quite easy, "he might as
weel be awa'. He's only retarding buzziness."
GENERAL INFORMATION BUREAU
P-t-r. What kind of people live in uninhabited places?
Ans.: Cannibals, likely.
CHAPTER XXXII. OUR LAST EVENING
IT was the evening before the day on which the Story Girl and Uncle
Blair were to leave us, and we were keeping our last tryst together in
the orchard where we had spent so many happy hours. We had made a
pilgrimage to all the old haunts--the hill field, the spruce wood, the
dairy, Grandfather King's willow, the Pulpit Stone, Pat's grave, and
Uncle Stephen's Walk; and now we foregathered in the sere grasses about
the old well and feasted on the little jam turnovers Felicity had made
that day specially for the occasion.
"I wonder if we'll ever all be together again," sighed Cecily.
"I wonder when I'll get jam turnovers like this again," said the
Story Girl, trying to be gay but not making much of a success of it.
"If Paris wasn't so far away I could send you a box of nice things
now and then," said Felicity forlornly, "but I suppose there's no use
thinking of that. Dear knows what they'll give you to eat over there."
"Oh, the French have the reputation of being the best cooks in the
world," rejoined the Story Girl, "but I know they can't beat your jam
turnovers and plum puffs, Felicity. Many a time I'll be hankering
"If we ever do meet again you'll be grown up," said Felicity
"Well, you won't have stood still yourselves, you know."
"No, but that's just the worst of it. We'll all be different and
everything will be changed."
"Just think," said Cecily, "last New Year's Eve we were wondering
what would happen this year; and what a lot of things have happened
that we never expected. Oh, dear!"
"If things never happened life would be pretty dull," said the
Story Girl briskly. "Oh, don't look so dismal, all of you."
"It's hard to be cheerful when everybody's going away," sighed
"Well, let's pretend to be, anyway," insisted the Story Girl.
"Don't let's think of parting. Let's think instead of how much we've
laughed this last year or so. I'm sure I shall never forget this dear
old place. We've had so many good times here."
"And some bad times, too," reminded Felix.
"Remember when Dan et the bad berries last summer?"
"And the time we were so scared over that bell ringing in the
house," grinned Peter.
"And the Judgment Day," added Dan.
"And the time Paddy was bewitched," suggested Sara Ray.
"And when Peter was dying of the measles," said Felicity.
"And the time Jimmy Patterson was lost," said Dan. "Gee-whiz, but
that scared me out of a year's growth."
"Do you remember the time we took the magic seed," grinned Peter.
"Weren't we silly?" said Felicity. "I really can never look Billy
Robinson in the face when I meet him. I'm always sure he's laughing at
me in his sleeve."
"It's Billy Robinson who ought to be ashamed when he meets you or
any of us," commented Cecily severely. "I'd rather be cheated than
cheat other people."
"Do you mind the time we bought God's picture?" asked Peter.
"I wonder if it's where we buried it yet," speculated Felix.
"I put a stone over it, just as we did over Pat," said Cecily.
"I wish I could forget what God looks like," sighed Sara Ray. "I
can't forget it--and I can't forget what the bad place is like either,
ever since Peter preached that sermon on it."
"When you get to be a real minister you'll have to preach that
sermon over again, Peter," grinned Dan.
"My Aunt Jane used to say that people needed a sermon on that place
once in a while," retorted Peter seriously.
"Do you mind the night I et the cucumbers and milk to make me
dream?" said Cecily.
And therewith we hunted out our old dream books to read them again,
and, forgetful of coming partings, laughed over them till the old
orchard echoed to our mirth. When we had finished we stood in a circle
around the well and pledged "eternal friendship" in a cup of its
Then we joined hands and sang "Auld Lang Syne." Sara Ray cried
bitterly in lieu of singing.
"Look here," said the Story Girl, as we turned to leave the old
orchard, "I want to ask a favour of you all. Don't say good-bye to me
"Why not?" demanded Felicity in astonishment.
"Because it's such a hopeless sort of word. Don't let's SAY it at
all. Just see me off with a wave of your hands. It won't seem half so
bad then. And don't any of you cry if you can help it. I want to
remember you all smiling."
We went out of the old orchard where the autumn night wind was
beginning to make its weird music in the russet boughs, and shut the
little gate behind us. Our revels there were ended.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE STORY GIRL GOES
The morning dawned, rosy and clear and frosty. Everybody was up
early, for the travellers must leave in time to catch the nine o'clock
train. The horse was harnessed and Uncle Alec was waiting by the door.
Aunt Janet was crying, but everybody else was making a valiant effort
not to. The Awkward Man and Mrs. Dale came to see the last of their
favourite. Mrs. Dale had brought her a glorious sheaf of
chrysanthemums, and the Awkward Man gave her, quite gracefully, another
little, old, limp book from his library.
"Read it when you are sad or happy or lonely or discouraged or
hopeful," he said gravely.
"He has really improved very much since he got married," whispered
Felicity to me.
Sara Stanley wore a smart new travelling suit and a blue felt hat
with a white feather. She looked so horribly grown up in it that we
felt as if she were lost to us already.
Sara Ray had vowed tearfully the night before that she would be up
in the morning to say farewell. But at this juncture Judy Pineau
appeared to say that Sara, with her usual luck, had a sore throat, and
that her mother consequently would not permit her to come. So Sara had
written her parting words in a three-cornered pink note.
"My OWN DARLING FRIEND:--WORDS CANNOT EXPRESS my feelings over not
being able to go up this morning to say good-bye to one I so FONDLY
ADORE. When I think that I cannot SEE YOU AGAIN my heart is almost TOO
FULL FOR UTTERANCE. But mother says I cannot and I MUST OBEY. But I
will be present IN SPIRIT. It just BREAKS MY HEART that you are going
SO FAR AWAY. You have always been SO KIND to me and never hurt my
feelings AS SOME DO and I shall miss you SO MUCH. But I earnestly HOPE
AND PRAY that you will be HAPPY AND PROSPEROUS wherever YOUR LOT IS
CAST and not be seasick on THE GREAT OCEAN. I hope you will find time
AMONG YOUR MANY DUTIES to write me a letter ONCE IN A WHILE. I shall
ALWAYS REMEMBER YOU and please remember me. I hope we WILL MEET AGAIN
sometime, but if not may we meet in A FAR BETTER WORLD where there are
no SAD PARTINGS.
"Your true and loving friend,
"Poor little Sara," said the Story Girl, with a queer catch in her
voice, as she slipped the tear-blotted note into her pocket. "She
isn't a bad little soul, and I'm sorry I couldn't see her once more,
though maybe it's just as well for she'd have to cry and set us all
off. I WON'T cry. Felicity, don't you dare. Oh, you dear, darling
people, I love you all so much and I'll go on loving you always."
"Mind you write us every week at the very least," said Felicity,
"Blair, Blair, watch over the child well," said Aunt Janet.
"Remember, she has no mother."
The Story Girl ran over to the buggy and climbed in. Uncle Blair
followed her. Her arms were full of Mrs. Dale's chrysanthemums, held
close up to her face, and her beautiful eyes shone softly at us over
them. No good-byes were said, as she wished. We all smiled bravely
and waved our hands as they drove out of the lane and down the moist
red road into the shadows of the fir wood in the valley. But we still
stood there, for we knew we should see the Story Girl once more.
Beyond the fir wood was an open curve in the road and she had promised
to wave a last farewell as they passed around it.
We watched the curve in silence, standing in a sorrowful little
group in the sunshine of the autumn morning. The delight of the world
had been ours on the golden road. It had enticed us with daisies and
rewarded us with roses. Blossom and lyric had waited on our wishes.
Thoughts, careless and sweet, had visited us. Laughter had been our
comrade and fearless Hope our guide. But now the shadow of change was
"There she is," cried Felicity.
The Story Girl stood up and waved her chrysanthemums at us. We
waved wildly back until the buggy had driven around the curve. Then we
went slowly and silently back to the house. The Story Girl was gone.