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“我确实喜欢一条路，因为你总是想知道它的尽头是什么。”

故事女孩曾说过这样的话。五月的早晨，菲利克斯和我离开多伦多前往爱德华王子岛时，并没有听到她说过这句话，事实上，我们几乎不知道故事女孩这样一个人的存在。我们根本不认识她这个名字。我们只知道她的表弟萨拉·斯坦利（Sara Stanley）与罗杰叔叔和奥利维亚·金姨妈住在岛上的一个农场，毗邻卡莱尔老国王的宅基地，她的母亲，也就是我们的费莉西蒂姨妈已经去世了。我们认为到达那里后我们应该认识一下她，从奥利维亚姨妈写给父亲的信中我们知道她会是一个非常快乐的人。除此之外，我们没有想到她。我们对费莉西蒂、塞西莉和丹更感兴趣，他们住在庄园里，因此将成为我们一个赛季的室友。

但那天早上，当火车驶出多伦多时，故事女孩未曾说出口的话的精神在我们心中激动不已。我们在一条漫长的道路上前行；尽管我们对它的结局有所了解，但它仍然具有足够的未知魅力，为我们对它的猜测增添了奇妙的魅力。

想到要参观父亲的老家，并生活在他童年时经常出没的地方，我们感到很高兴。他与我们谈论了很多关于它的事情，并如此频繁、如此细致地描述了它的场景，以至于他用他自己对它的一些根深蒂固的感情激励了我们——这种感情在他流亡的所有岁月中从未减弱。我们有一种模糊的感觉，不知何故，我们属于那里，属于我们家庭的那个摇篮，尽管我们从未见过它。我们总是热切地盼望着有一天父亲会带我们“回家”，回到那座背后种着云杉的老房子，前面是著名的“国王果园”——那时我们可以在“斯蒂芬叔叔的步道”中漫步，从有中国屋顶的深井里喝水，站在“讲坛石”上，吃我们“生日树”上的苹果。

时机来得比我们想象的还要早。但父亲终究不能带我们去。那年春天，他的公司邀请他前往里约热内卢，负责他们在那里的新分公司。失去这个机会实在是太好了，因为父亲是个穷人，这意味着升职加薪。但这也意味着我们家的暂时破裂。我们的母亲在我们大到能够记起她之前就去世了。父亲不能带我们去里约热内卢。最后他决定把我们送到亚历克叔叔和珍妮特姨妈那里去。我们的女管家属于该岛，现在正要返回该岛，她在旅途中负责照顾我们。我担心她旅途会很焦虑，可怜的女人！她总是处于一种完全合理的恐惧之中，生怕我们迷路或被杀。当她到达夏洛特敦并将我们交给亚历克叔叔照顾时，她一定感到非常轻松。确实，她也这么说过。

“胖子也没那么糟糕。当你眨眼的时候，他不会像瘦子那样迅速移动并离开你的视线。但与这些年轻人一起旅行的唯一安全方法是用一根短绳子将他们俩绑在你身上——一根强大的短绳子。”

“胖子”是菲利克斯，他对自己的肥胖非常敏感。他总是通过锻炼来瘦身，结果却越来越胖。他发誓他不在乎；但他确实非常在意，并且以一种极其不负责任的方式怒视着麦克拉伦夫人。自从她告诉他他很快就会像他一样宽和长的那一天起，他就不再喜欢她了。

就我个人而言，看到她离开我感到相当遗憾。她为我们哭泣并祝愿我们一切顺利。但当我们开车到达空旷的乡村时，我们已经忘记了她，亚历克叔叔的两侧各有一个，从我们见到他的那一刻起，我们就爱上了他。他身材矮小，五官清瘦精致，灰色胡须剪得很短，一双大而疲惫的蓝眼睛——又是父亲的眼睛。我们知道亚历克叔叔很喜欢孩子，并且非常高兴地欢迎“艾伦的孩子们”。和他在一起我们感到宾至如归，并且不怕向他询问我们最关心的任何问题。在那段二十四英里的车程中，我们和他成了非常好的朋友。

令我们失望的是，当我们到达卡莱尔时，天已经黑了——当我们沿着山上老国王庄园的小巷行驶时，天色太暗了，看不清任何东西。在我们身后，一轮新月悬挂在春天宁静的西南草地上，但我们周围却是五月之夜柔和湿润的阴影。我们透过黑暗热切地凝视着。

“那是一棵大柳树，贝夫，”当我们在门口拐进去时，菲利克斯兴奋地低声说道。

事实上，那棵树就是金祖父一天晚上在溪边犁田回来时种下的那棵树，他把用了一整天的柳树插在门边松软的土壤上。

它已经生根发芽了；我们的父亲和叔叔婶婶曾在它的影子下玩耍。现在它是一个巨大的东西，有一个巨大的树干和巨大的伸展树枝，每一个都像一棵树一样大。

“明天我要去爬它，”我高兴地说。

右边是一片昏暗、有树枝的地方，我们知道那是果园。在我们的左边，在咝咝作响的云杉和冷杉丛中，有一座粉刷成白色的老房子——不一会儿，一道光从敞开的门里射进来，珍妮特姨妈，一个身材高大、忙碌、精力充沛的女人，有着牡丹花般的脸颊，走了过来。欢迎我们。

晚饭后不久，我们就在厨房里吃晚饭了，厨房的天花板又低又暗，椽子天花板上挂着大量的火腿和培根片。一切都正如父亲所描述的那样。我们感觉我们已经回家了，把流亡抛在了身后。

费莉西蒂、塞西莉和丹坐在我们对面，当他们以为我们忙着吃饭而无暇见他们时，他们就盯着我们看。当他们吃饭时，我们试图盯着他们看；但他们却没有看到。结果，我们总是互相指责，感到廉价和尴尬。

丹是最年长的。他和我同龄——十三岁。他身材瘦削，长着雀斑，有一头又长又直的棕色头发，还有形状优美的国王鼻子。我们立刻认出了它。然而，他的嘴是他自己的，因为无论是国王还是选区一方，他的嘴都不像。没有人会急于认领它，因为它无疑是一个丑陋的东西——又长又窄又扭曲。但它会以友好的方式微笑，菲利克斯和我都觉得我们会喜欢丹。

费莉西蒂十二岁。她是以菲利西蒂阿姨的名字来称呼的，菲利西蒂阿姨是菲利克斯叔叔的双胞胎姐妹。正如父亲经常告诉我们的那样，费利西蒂姑妈和费利克斯叔叔在同一天去世，两人相距甚远，并排埋葬在老卡莱尔墓地里。

我们从奥莉维亚姨妈的信中知道，费莉西蒂是这段关系的美妙之处，因此我们很想见到她。她完全证明了我们的期望。她身材丰满，有酒窝，有一双深蓝色的大眼睛，厚重的眼睑，柔软的羽毛般的金色卷发，粉白相间的皮肤——“国王肤色”。国王们以其鼻子和肤色而闻名。费莉西蒂也有一双漂亮的手和手腕。他们的每一次转身都会露出一个酒窝。很高兴想知道她的肘部是什么样子。

她穿着粉红色印花衣服，围着褶边平纹细布围裙，非常漂亮。从丹说的话中我们了解到，她是为了迎接我们的到来而“盛装打扮”的。这让我们感到非常重要。据我们所知，以前还没有任何女性生物为了我们而费尽心思打扮。

十一岁的塞西莉也很漂亮——或者说，如果费莉西蒂不在的话，她也会很漂亮。费莉西蒂宁愿采用其他女孩的颜色。塞西莉在她身边显得苍白而瘦弱。但她有着精致的小五官，光滑的棕色头发，缎子般的光泽，温和的棕色眼睛，时不时地流露出一丝娴静。我们记得奥利维亚姨妈曾写信给父亲说塞西莉是一个真正的沃德——她没有幽默感。我们不知道这意味着什么，但我们认为这并不完全是恭维。

尽管如此，我们都倾向于认为我们更喜欢塞西莉而不是费莉西蒂。可以肯定的是，费莉西蒂是一位令人惊叹的美人。但是，凭借童年时期迅速而准确的直觉，我们意识到她对自己的美貌太在意了，这种直觉有​​时需要成熟的时间才能察觉到。简而言之，我们看到费莉西蒂很虚荣。

“故事女孩还没来见你真是个奇迹。”亚历克叔叔说。 “她对你的到来感到非常兴奋。”

“她一整天都不太舒服，”塞西莉解释道，“奥利维亚阿姨不让她在夜空中出来。她反而让她去睡觉。故事女孩非常失望。”

“故事女孩是谁？”菲利克斯问道。

“噢，萨拉——萨拉·斯坦利。我们称她为“故事女孩”，一方面是因为她很会讲故事——哦，我无法描述它——另一方面是因为住在山脚下的萨拉·雷经常过来和我们一起玩，而且在同一个人群里有两个同名的女孩是很尴尬的。此外，莎拉·斯坦利不喜欢她的名字，她宁愿被称为“故事女孩”。”

丹第一次说话，相当不好意思地主动透露彼得也想过来，但不得不回家给母亲带些面粉。

“彼得？”我质疑道。我从来没有听说过彼得。

“他是你罗杰叔叔的勤杂工，”亚历克叔叔说。 “他的名字叫彼得·克雷格，他是一个真正聪明的小伙子。但他也有他的恶作剧，就是那个小伙子。”

“他想成为费莉西蒂的情人，”丹狡猾地说。

“丹，别胡说八道，”珍妮特姨妈严厉地说。

费莉西蒂摇摇头，不怀好意地看了丹一眼。

“我不太可能雇一个男孩做情人，”她说。

我们看到她的愤怒是真实的，不是假装的。显然，彼得并不是费丽西蒂引以为豪的崇拜者。

我们是非常饥饿的孩子；当我们吃完我们能吃的所有东西后——哦，珍妮特姨妈总是给我们准备什么晚餐！——我们发现我们也很累——太累了，无法出去探索我们祖先的领地，尽管我们本想这样做，但黑暗的。

我们很愿意去睡觉；不久，我们发现自己藏在楼上的那个房间里，向东望去，看到父亲曾经居住过的云杉林。丹与我们分享它，睡在对面角落里他自己的床上。床单和枕套散发着薰衣草的香气，我们身上盖着金祖母著名的拼布被子之一。窗户开着，我们听到青蛙在小溪草甸的沼泽里唱歌。当然，我们在安大略省听到过青蛙唱歌；但可以肯定的是，爱德华王子岛的青蛙更加悦耳、温和。或者只是古老的家庭传统和故事的魅力笼罩着我们，为我们周围的所有景象和声音赋予了魔力？这就是家——父亲的家——我们的家！我们从来没有在任何一栋房子里住过足够长的时间，以至于无法对它产生感情。但在这里，在金曾祖父九十年前建造的屋檐树下，那种感觉像一股活生生的甜蜜和温柔的洪水一样席卷了我们孩子气的心灵和灵魂。

“想想看，这些正是父亲小时候听过的青蛙的声音。”菲利克斯低声说道。

“它们不可能是同一只青蛙，”我怀疑地反对道，对青蛙的寿命可能不太确定。 “父亲离开家已经二十年了。”

“嗯，它们是他听到的青蛙的后代，”菲利克斯说，“它们在同一个沼泽里唱歌。这已经足够接近了。”

我们的门开着，在狭窄的走廊对面的房间里，女孩们正在准备睡觉，说话的声音比她们意识到自己甜美、尖锐的声音能传得多远时要大得多。

“你觉得男孩们怎么样？”塞西莉问道。

“贝弗利很帅，但菲利克斯太胖了。”菲丽西蒂连忙回答。

菲利克斯恶狠狠地扯动被子，咕哝了一声。但我开始想我会喜欢费莉西蒂。她的虚荣也许并不完全是她的错。当她照镜子的时候，她怎么能不这样呢？

“我觉得他们都很漂亮，而且长得也很漂亮，”塞西莉说。

亲爱的小灵魂！

“我不知道故事女孩会怎么看他们，”费莉西蒂说道，仿佛这才是最重要的。

不知怎的，我们也这么觉得。我们觉得，如果故事女孩不同意我们，那么其他人同意或不同意也没什么区别。

“我想知道故事女孩漂亮吗？”菲利克斯大声说道。

“不，她不是，”房间另一边的丹立刻说道。 “但当她和你说话时，你会认为她是。每个人都这样。当你离开她之后，你才发现她一点也不漂亮。”

女孩们的门“砰”的一声关上了。屋子里一片寂静。我们进入了睡眠状态，想知道故事女孩是否会喜欢我们。

日出后不久我就醒了。五月的苍白阳光洒满云杉，一阵寒冷而鼓舞人心的风吹拂着树枝。

“菲利克斯，醒醒。”我摇晃着他低声说道。

“怎么了？”他不情愿地低声说道。

“现在是早上。我们起来，下去，出去。我迫不及待地想看看父亲告诉我们的地方。”

我们溜下床，穿好衣服，没有吵醒丹，他还在熟睡，张着嘴，床单被踢到地板上。我花了很大力气才阻止菲利克斯试图看看他是否能将一颗弹珠“挤”进那张诱人的张开的嘴里。我告诉他这会吵醒丹，然后他可能会坚持站起来陪我们，而且第一次我们自己去会好得多。

当我们蹑手蹑脚地下楼时，一切都很安静。我们听到厨房里有人生火，大概是亚历克叔叔。但这一天房子的心脏还没有开始跳动。

我们在大厅里停了一会儿，看看那座大“祖父”钟。它没有走，但对我们来说，它似乎是一个熟悉的老熟人，三个山峰上都有镀金的球。指示月亮变化的小表盘和指针，还有木门上的凹痕，那是父亲小时候顽皮地踢木门时留下的凹痕。

然后我们打开前门走了出去，心中充满了狂喜。一阵难得的南风向我们袭来。云杉的影子又长又清晰。清晨，天空蔚蓝，风拂过我们的头顶。西边，小溪田野那边，是一条长长的山谷和一座小山，山上长满了紫色的冷杉，山毛榉和枫树的叶子还没有落下。

房子后面是一片冷杉和云杉树林，阴暗凉爽，风喜欢呼呼地吹着，那里总是弥漫着树脂和木头的气味。远处是一片茂密的种植园，长满了细长的银桦树和低语的白杨树。再过去就是罗杰叔叔的房子。

就在我们面前，周围环绕着修剪整齐的云杉树篱，是著名的国王果园，它的历史已融入我们最早的记忆中。从父亲的描述中，我们知道了这一切，而且在想象中，我们曾多次在其中漫步。

自金祖父带新娘回家时起，已经过去了将近六十年。婚礼前，他用栅栏围起了南边那片向阳倾斜的大草地。这是农场里最好、最肥沃的田地，邻居们告诉年轻的亚伯拉罕·金，他会在那片草地上种植许多优质的小麦。亚伯拉罕国王微笑着，因为他是一个沉默寡言的人，所以什么也没说。但在他的脑海里，他对未来的岁月有一个愿景，在那个愿景中，他看到的不是一英亩的丰收金子，而是一条条绿叶茂盛的大道，树木茂盛，果实累累，让子孙们的眼睛感到高兴。未出生的。

这是一个慢慢实现的愿景。金爷爷并不着急。他并没有立即将整个果园腾出来，因为他希望它与他的生活和历史一起成长，并与他的家庭所拥有的一切美好和欢乐紧密相连。于是，他带年轻妻子回家的第二天早上，他们就一起去南边的草地上种下了新娘树。这些树已经不再有生命了；它们已经死了。但当父亲还是个孩子的时候，它们就已经存在了，每年春天，它们都盛开着花朵，就像伊丽莎白·金在她生命和爱情的早晨走过古老的南方草地时，她的脸一样精致。

当亚伯拉罕和伊丽莎白生下儿子时，果园里为他种了一棵树。他们总共有十四个孩子，每个孩子都有自己的“诞生树”。每个家庭节日都会以类似的方式进行纪念，每一位在他们的屋顶下过夜的心爱的游客都应该在果园里种一棵树。因此，其中的每一棵树都是一座美丽的绿色纪念碑，纪念着逝去岁月的某种爱或欢乐。每个孙子都有自己的树，当祖父收到出生的消息时，他也将树放在那里。并不总是一棵苹果树——也许它是一棵李子、樱桃或梨。但人们总是知道它是为谁或由谁种植的。菲利克斯和我对“菲丽西蒂姨妈的梨”、“朱莉娅姨妈的樱桃”、“亚历克叔叔的苹果”和“牧师”的了解同样多。斯科特先生的李子”，仿佛我们是在其中出生和长大的。

现在我们已经来到了果园。它就在我们面前；我们只需打开树篱中那扇粉刷成白色的小门，我们就可能会发现自己身处其传奇的领域。但在到达大门之前，我们向左边看了一眼，沿着绿草如茵、云杉环绕的小路通向罗杰叔叔家。在那条小巷的入口处，我们看到一个女孩站着，脚边站着一只灰色的猫。她举起手，愉快地向我们招手。我们忘记了果园，听从了她的召唤。因为我们知道这一定是故事女孩；那欢快而优雅的姿态充满了不可否认或否认的诱惑。

当我们走近时，我们饶有兴趣地看着她，甚至忘记了害羞。不，她并不漂亮。她在十四岁的时候就已经很高了，苗条挺拔。她长而白的脸——太长太白了——周围垂落着光滑的深棕色卷发，用猩红色的丝带将玫瑰花结系在耳朵上方。她那弯弯的大嘴像罂粟花一样红，还有一双明亮的、杏仁状的淡褐色眼睛。但我们觉得她不漂亮。

然后她说话了；她说，

“早上好。”

我们从来没有听到过像她这样的声音。从那以后，我再也没有听到过这样的声音。我无法描述它。我可以说这很清楚；我可能会说这很甜蜜；我可以说它充满活力、深远、如钟声；这一切都是真的，但它不会让你真正了解故事女孩声音的独特品质。

如果声音有颜色，她的声音就会像彩虹一样。它让文字变得生动起来。无论她说什么，都变成了一个呼吸实体，而不仅仅是口头陈述或话语。菲利克斯和我太年轻，无法理解或分析它给我们留下的印象；但听到她的问候，我们立即感到这是一个美好的早晨——一个非常美好的早晨——这个最美好的世界中发生过的最美好的早晨。

“你们是菲利克斯和贝弗利，”她继续说道，带着一种坦率的同志情谊与我们握手，这与费利西蒂和塞西莉害羞、女性化的示好截然不同。从那一刻起，我们就像认识一百年的好朋友一样。 “我很高兴见到你。我很失望昨晚没能过去。不过，今天早上我起得很早，因为我确信你也会早起，而且你想让我告诉你一些事情。我能比费莉西蒂或塞西莉更好地讲述事情。你觉得菲丽西蒂很漂亮吗？”

“她是我见过的最漂亮的女孩，”我热情地说，想起费莉西蒂曾夸我英俊。

“男孩们都这么认为，”讲故事的女孩说道，但我想，她并不太高兴。 “我想她是的。她也是一位出色的厨师，尽管她只有十二岁。我不会做饭。我正在努力学习，但进展不大。奥利维亚阿姨说我没有足够的进取心去当一名厨师；但我很想能够做出像费莉西蒂一样好的蛋糕和馅饼。但话说回来，费莉西蒂是愚蠢的。我这么说并不是恶意。这只是事实，你很快就会自己发现。我很喜欢费莉西蒂，但她很蠢。塞西莉比以前聪明多了。塞西莉是个亲爱的。亚历克叔叔也是如此；珍妮特阿姨也很友善。”

“奥利维亚阿姨是什么样的人？”菲利克斯问道。

“奥利维亚阿姨非常漂亮。她就像一朵三色堇——柔软、紫色、金色。”

就在故事女孩说话的时候，菲利克斯和我在我们脑海中的某个地方看到了一个天鹅绒、紫色和金色三色堇的女人。

“但是她很好吗？”我问。这是关于成年人的主要问题。他们的外表对我们来说并不重要。

“她很可爱。但你知道，她已经二十九岁了。那已经很老了。她不太打扰我。珍妮特阿姨说，如果没有她，我根本就不会长大。奥利维亚阿姨说，应该让孩子们自由起来——其他一切在他们出生之前就已经为他们解决了。我不明白。你？”

我们没有。但根据我们的经验，成年人有说一些难以理解的话的习惯。

“罗杰叔叔是什么样的人？”这是我们的下一个问题。

“嗯，我喜欢罗杰叔叔。”故事女孩若有所思地说。 “他身材高大，性格开朗。但他太捉弄人了。你问他一个严肃的问题，却得到一个可笑的答案。不过，他几乎从不责骂或生气，这就是问题所在。他是个老光棍了。”

“他从来没有想过要结婚吗？”菲利克斯问道。

“我不知道。奥利维亚姨妈希望他这么做，因为她厌倦了为他看家，而且她想去加利福尼亚州的朱莉娅姨妈那里。但她说他永远不会结婚，因为他追求完美，而当他找到她时，她就不再拥有他了。”

这时我们都坐在了云杉粗糙的树根上，那只大灰猫走过来和我们成了朋友。他是一头高贵的动物，银灰色的皮毛上有漂亮的深色条纹。有了这种颜色，大多数猫的脚都是白色或银色的。但他有四只黑色的爪子和一个黑色的鼻子。这些特点使他显得与众不同，使他与普通猫或花园猫截然不同。他似乎是一只对自己评价还算不错的猫，而他对我们的示好的反应略显居高临下。

“这不是托普西，是吗？”我问。我立刻就知道这个问题很愚蠢。托普西，父亲所说的那只猫，三十年前就已经繁衍生息了，她的九条生命几乎不可能持续这么久。

“不，但那是托普西的曾曾曾曾孙。”故事女孩严肃地说。 “他的名字叫帕迪，他是我自己的特别的猫。我们有谷仓猫，但帕迪从不和它们交往。我和所有的猫都是好朋友。它们是如此时尚、舒适和端庄。让他们高兴是很容易的。哦，我很高兴你们小伙子来到这里住。除了几天，这里什么都没有发生，所以我们必须创造自己的美好时光。我们以前缺男孩——只有丹和彼得，还有四个女孩。”

“四个女孩？哦，是的，萨拉·雷。费莉希蒂提到了她。她喜欢什么？她住在哪里？”

“就在山下。你看不到云杉丛的房子。萨拉是一个好女孩。她只有十一岁，她的母亲非常严厉。她从不允许萨拉读任何一个故事。只是你喜欢！莎拉总是因为做一些她确信母亲不会同意的事情而困扰她，但这从来没有阻止她去做这些事情。这只会破坏她的乐趣。罗杰叔叔说，一个不让你做任何事情的母亲，和一个不让你享受任何事情的良心，是一个可怕的组合，他并不奇怪萨拉苍白、瘦弱、紧张。但是，就你我而言，我相信真正的原因是她妈妈没有给她一半足够的食物。你知道，并不是说她很刻薄，而是她认为孩子吃太多东西或除了某些东西之外的任何东西都不健康。我们没有出生在那样的家庭，难道不是很幸运吗？”

“我认为我们都出生在同一个家庭真是太幸运了，”菲利克斯说。

“不是吗？我常常这样想。我常常想，如果金祖父和祖母从未结婚，那将是一件多么可怕的事情。我想这里根本就没有我们这些孩子。或者如果我们是的话，我们就会成为别人的一部分，那几乎同样糟糕。当我回想这一切时，我对金祖父和祖母碰巧结婚感到非常感激，当时他们可能已经结婚了很多人。”

菲利克斯和我瑟瑟发抖。我们突然感到自己摆脱了可怕的危险——生来就是别人的危险。但直到故事女孩让我们意识到这是多么可怕，以及我们或我们的父母存在之前的几年里我们所冒的风险是多么可怕。

“谁住在那边？”我指着田野对面的一座房子问道。

“哦，那是属于尴尬男人的。他的名字叫贾斯珀·戴尔，但每个人都称他为“尴尬的人”。他们确实说他写诗。他称他的地方为“黄金里程碑”。我知道为什么，因为我读过朗费罗的诗。他从不踏入社会，因为他太笨拙了。女孩们嘲笑他，他不喜欢这样。我知道一个关于他的故事，有时间我会告诉你。”

“那另一栋房子里住着谁？”菲利克斯一边问道，一边望着西边的山谷，树林里隐约可见一个灰色的小屋顶。

“老佩格·鲍文。她很奇怪。冬天她和很多宠物一起住在那里，夏天她在乡村里漫步乞讨食物。他们说她疯了。人们总是试图吓唬我们这些孩子，告诉我们如果我们不守规矩，佩格·鲍文就会抓住我们。我不像以前那么害怕她了，但我想我不想被她抓住。萨拉·雷非常害怕她。彼得·克雷格说她是个女巫，他打赌当黄油不来时她就会陷入困境。但我不相信。现在的巫师真是太稀缺了。世界上某个地方可能有一些，但爱德华王子岛不太可能有。很久以前，它们曾经非常多。我知道一些精彩的女巫故事，有一天我会告诉你。它们只会让你的血液在血管里冻结。”

我们对此毫不怀疑。如果有人能冻结我们血管中的血液，这个拥有美妙声音的女孩就能做到。但那是一个五月的早晨，我们的血管里流淌着年轻的血液。我们建议参观果园会更愉快。

“好的。我也知道有关它的故事。”当我们穿过院子时，她说道，后面跟着摇着尾巴的帕迪。 “哦，春天来了，你不高兴吗？冬天的美丽在于它让你欣赏春天。”

门闩在故事女孩的手下“咔哒”一声，下一刻我们就到了国王果园。

果园外面的草才刚刚开始变绿。但在这里，由于受到云杉树篱的庇护，免受不确定的风的影响，并且向南倾斜的阳光，它已经像一块美妙的天鹅绒地毯一样。树上的叶子开始长出毛茸茸的、灰色的簇状叶子。讲坛石的底部有紫色的白色紫罗兰。

“正如父亲描述的那样，”菲利克斯幸福地叹了口气，“还有那口有中式屋顶的井。”

我们急忙朝它走去，踩着周围开始长出的薄荷叶。这是一口很深的井，井边是粗糙的、未加工过的石头。上面有一个奇特的宝塔式屋顶，是斯蒂芬叔叔从中国航海归来时建造的，上面覆盖着光秃秃的藤蔓。

“当藤蔓长出叶子，垂下长长的花彩时，真是太漂亮了，”故事女孩说。 “鸟儿在里面筑巢。每年夏天都会有一对野生金丝雀来到这里。蕨类植物生长在井的石头之间，一直延伸到你能看到的最深处。水很可爱。爱德华叔叔就大卫的士兵去给他取水的伯利恒井做了他最精彩的布道，他通过描述他在宅基地的老井——这口井——以及他在异国他乡如何渴望得到它闪闪发光的水来说明这一点。所以你看，它很有名。”

“这里有一个杯子，就像父亲时代以前的那个一样，”菲利克斯指着路边小架子上的一个老式浅杯，里面装着云蓝色的器皿，惊呼道。

“就是同一个杯子。”故事女孩印象深刻地说。 “这不是一件很奇妙的事情吗？那只杯子已经放在这里四十年了，数百人喝过它，从来没有被打破过。朱莉娅姨妈有一次把它掉进井里，但他们把它捞了上来，除了边缘的那个小缺口之外，没有受到任何伤害。我认为这与金家族的命运息息相关，就像朗费罗诗中的伊甸园之运一样。这是金祖母第二好牌组的最后一杯。她最好的一套仍然完整。奥利维亚阿姨有它。你必须让她给你看。它太漂亮了，上面布满了红色浆果，还有最有趣的大腹便便的小奶油罐。除了家庭周年纪念日之外，奥利维亚阿姨从不使用它。”

我们从蓝色杯子里喝了一杯饮料，然后去找我们的生日树。我们很失望地发现它们又大又坚固。在我们看来，他们应该还处于与​​我们童年相对应的幼苗阶段。

“你的苹果很好吃，”故事女孩对我说，“但菲利克斯的苹果只适合做馅饼。他们后面的两棵大树是双胞胎的树——我的母亲和菲利克斯叔叔，你知道。这些苹果太甜了，除了我们孩子和法国男孩之外，没有人能吃它们。那边那棵又高又细的树，枝条都笔直地向上生长，是一棵自己长起来的树苗，它的苹果没人能吃，又酸又苦。就连猪也不吃。珍妮特姨妈有一次尝试用它们做馅饼，因为她说她讨厌看到它们被浪费掉。但她再也没有尝试过。她说，单独浪费苹果比同时浪费苹果和糖要好。然后她试图把它们送给法国雇工，但他们甚至不肯把它们带回家。”

故事女孩的话像珍珠和钻石一样落在清晨的空气中。甚至她的介词和连词也具有难以言喻的魅力，暗示着她提到的一切都蕴藏着神秘、欢笑和魔力。苹果派、酸菜苗和猪立刻就被赋予了浪漫的魅力。

“我喜欢听你说话，”菲利克斯用他严肃、古板的方式说道。

“每个人都这样。”故事女孩冷静地说。 “我很高兴你喜欢我说话的方式。但我希望你也喜欢我——就像你喜欢费莉西蒂和塞西莉一样。不是更好。我曾经想要这样，但我已经克服了。在主日学校，牧师给我们上课的那一天，我发现这是自私的。但我希望你也喜欢我。”

“好吧，我会的，”菲利克斯强调道。我想他记得费莉西蒂说他胖。

塞西莉现在加入了我们。看来今天是费莉希蒂帮忙准备早餐的时间，所以她不能来了。我们都去了史蒂芬叔叔步道。

这是两排苹果树，沿着果园的西侧延伸。斯蒂芬叔叔是亚伯拉罕和伊丽莎白·金的长子。他没有祖父那样对树林和草地的持久热爱，以及温暖的红土的友善。金祖母曾经是一名沃德，斯蒂芬叔叔身上流淌着航海种族的血统。尽管母亲不情愿地哀求并流着泪，他还是必须出海。他从海上来，用从异国带来的树木在果园里开辟了他的大道。

然后他又扬帆远航——从此就再也没有这艘船的消息了。在那几个月的等待中，祖母的棕色头发首先变白了。果园第一次听到哭泣的声音，被悲伤神圣化。

“花开的时候在这里散步真是太棒了，”故事女孩说。 “这就像一个仙境之梦——就好像你走在国王的宫殿里一样。苹果很美味，冬天这里是海岸的绝佳去处。”

从小路出发，我们来到了讲坛石——一块巨大的灰色巨石，有一个人的头那么高，位于东南角。前面笔直光滑，后面却自然地向下倾斜，中间有一个可以站立的壁架。它在我们叔叔阿姨的游戏中扮演了重要的角色，根据场合需要，它可以是坚固的城堡、印第安伏击、宝座、讲坛或音乐会平台。爱德华叔叔八岁时就在那块古老的灰色巨石上进行了他的第一次布道。朱莉娅姨妈的歌声让成千上万的人为之高兴，她在那里唱起了她最早的牧歌。

故事女孩爬上壁架，坐在边缘，看着我们。帕特严肃地坐在它的底座上，用黑色的爪子优雅地洗着脸。

“现在讲讲你关于果园的故事吧，”我说。

“有两个重要的。”故事女孩说。 “被吻的诗人的故事和家鬼的故事。我该告诉哪一个呢？”

“告诉他们两个，”菲利克斯贪婪地说，“但先告诉鬼魂一个。”

“我不知道。”故事女孩一脸疑惑。 “这种故事应该在黄昏的阴影中讲述。那样的话，就会吓得魂飞魄散。”

我们认为不让灵魂被吓出我们的身体可能会更令人愉快，所以我们投票支持家庭幽灵。

“白天讲鬼故事更舒服，”菲利克斯说。

故事女孩开始了它，我们热切地听着。塞西莉以前听过很多次，她和我们一样热切地听着。她后来向我宣称，无论故事女孩讲了多少次故事，它总是显得新鲜而令人兴奋，就好像你第一次听到它一样。

“很久很久以前，”故事女孩开始说道，她的声音给我们一种遥远的远古印象，“甚至在金祖父出生之前，他的一个孤儿表弟就和他的父母住在这里。她的名字叫艾米丽·金。她很小而且很可爱。她有一双柔和的棕色眼睛，胆怯地不敢直视任何人——就像塞西莉那样——还有长而光滑的棕色卷发——就像我的一样。她的脸颊上有一个小小的胎记，就像一只粉红色的蝴蝶——就在这里。

“当然，那时这里还没有果园。那只是一片田地；但里面有一丛白桦树，就在亚历克叔叔的那棵大树现在所在的地方，艾米丽喜欢坐在白桦树下的蕨类植物中读书或缝纫。她有一个情人。他的名字叫马尔科姆·沃德，他英俊如王子。她全心全意地爱着他，他也同样爱着她；但他们从未谈论过这件事。他们常常在白桦树下相会，谈论一切，除了爱情。有一天，他告诉她他第二天要来问一个非常重要的问题，他来的时候想在桦树下找到她。艾米丽答应在那里见他。我确信那天晚上她彻夜未眠，思考着这个问题，想知道重要的问题是什么，尽管她心里很清楚。我会。第二天，她穿上她最好的淡蓝色平纹细布，打扮得漂漂亮亮，梳理了一下卷发，微笑着走向桦树丛。当她在那里等待时，想着这些可爱的想法，一个邻居的男孩跑了过来——一个不知道她的恋情的男孩——大声喊道马尔科姆·沃德被他的枪意外走火杀死了。艾米丽只是把手放在心口上——就这样——然后倒在了蕨类植物中，浑身惨白，支离破碎。当她复活后，她再也没有哭泣或哀叹。她变了。她再也、再也不像她自己了。除非她穿上蓝色的平纹细布在桦树下等待，否则她永远不会满足。她的脸色一天比一天苍白，而粉蝴蝶却越来越红，直到她雪白的脸颊上沾满了血迹。冬天来临时，她死了。但明年春天”——故事女孩压低了声音，像她更大的音调一样清晰可听、令人兴奋——“人们开始说，有时人们会看到艾米丽仍然在桦树下等待。没有人知道是谁先说的。但不止一个人看到了她。祖父小时候就见过她。我妈妈见过她一次。”

“你见过她吗？”菲利克斯怀疑地问道。

“不，但如果我继续相信她的话，总有一天我会的。”故事女孩自信地说。

“我不想见到她。我会害怕。”塞西莉颤抖着说道。

“没什么好害怕的。”故事女孩安慰道。 “这不像是一个奇怪的鬼魂。这是我们家的鬼魂，当然不会伤害我们。”

我们对此不太确定。鬼魂是一些古怪的人，即使他们是我们家的鬼魂。故事女孩让这个故事对我们来说非常真实。我们很高兴晚上没有听到它。我们怎么可能穿过昏暗果园的阴影和摇曳的树枝回到房子呢？事实上，我们几乎不敢抬头看它，生怕看到亚历克叔叔的树下等待着、身穿蓝衣的艾米丽。但我们所看到的只是费莉西蒂，她在绿色的草地上撕扯，她的卷发在她身后飘逸，形成金色的云朵。

“费莉西蒂担心她错过了什么。”故事女孩用一种平静而有趣的语气说道。 “你的早餐准备好了吗，费莉西蒂，或者我有时间给孩子们讲《被吻的诗人的故事》吗？”

“早餐已经准备好了，但要等到父亲照顾完病牛后我们才能吃，所以你可能还有时间。”费莉西蒂回答道。

菲利克斯和我无法将目光从她身上移开。她的脸颊绯红，眼睛因匆忙而闪闪发光，她的脸就像一朵青春的玫瑰。但当故事女孩说话时，我们忘记看向费莉西蒂。

“金祖父和祖母结婚大约十年后，一个年轻人来看望他们。他是祖母的远房亲戚，也是一位诗人。他才刚刚开始出名。后来他非常出名。他来到果园写诗，头枕在祖父树下的长凳上睡着了。然后伊迪丝姨婆走进了果园。当然，那时她还不是姨婆。她才十八岁，红唇，黑发黑眼。他们说她总是充满恶作剧。她刚刚离开家，不知道诗人的事。但当她看到他睡在那里时，她以为他是他们从苏格兰期待的表弟。她踮起脚尖——就这样——弯下身子——就这样——吻了他的脸颊。然后他睁开蓝色的大眼睛，抬头看着伊迪丝的脸。她脸红得像玫瑰花一样，因为她知道自己做了一件可怕的事情。这不可能是她来自苏格兰的表弟。她知道，因为他写信给她，他的眼睛和她的一样黑。伊迪丝逃跑并躲了起来。当然，当她发现他是一位著名诗人时，她的感觉更糟了。但后来他在上面写了一首最美丽的诗并发送给她——并出版在他的一本书中。”

我们已经看到了这一切——沉睡的天才——调皮的红唇女孩——这个吻像玫瑰花瓣一样轻轻落在晒伤的脸颊上。

“他们应该结婚，”菲利克斯说。

“嗯，在书里他们会有，但你看这是在现实生活中，”故事女孩说。 “有时我们会把故事表演出来。我喜欢彼得扮演诗人。我不喜欢丹扮演诗人，因为他满脸雀斑，眼睛眯得那么紧。但你几乎无法哄骗彼得成为诗人——除非费莉西蒂是伊迪丝——而丹在这方面非常乐于助人。”

“彼得是个什么样的人？”我问。

“彼得太棒了。他的母亲住在马克代尔路上，以洗衣为生。彼得三岁时，他的父亲就离家出走了，离开了他们。他再也没有回来，他们也不知道他是死是活。这不是对待家人的好方式吗？彼得从六岁起就开始为董事会工作。罗杰叔叔送他上学，并在夏天支付他工资。我们都喜欢彼得，除了费莉西蒂。”

“我非常喜欢彼得，”费莉西蒂一本正经地说，“但是你太看重他了，妈妈说。他只是一个雇佣童子，没有受过良好的教育，也没有受过多少教育。我认为你不应该像你一样与他平等。”

笑声在故事女孩的脸上荡漾，影子随风掠过成熟的麦子。

“彼得是一位真正的绅士，如果你长大并受过一百年的教育，他比你更有趣，”她说。

“他几乎不会写字，”费莉西蒂说。

“征服者威廉根本不会写字。”故事女孩沮丧地说。

“他从不去教堂，也从不祈祷，”费莉西蒂反驳道，面无表情。

“我也是，”彼得本人突然从树篱的一个小缝隙中出现，说道。 “我有时会祈祷。”

这个彼得是个身材苗条、身材匀称的小伙子，有着一双会笑的黑眼睛和浓密的黑色卷发。在赛季初期，他是赤脚的。他的着装是一件褪色的格子衬衫和一条狭小的灯芯绒灯笼裤。但他穿着紫色和细亚麻布的衣服，带着一种不自觉的气质，看起来比实际穿得要好得多。

“你不经常祈祷，”费莉西蒂坚持说。

“好吧，如果我不一直纠缠上帝，上帝就更有可能听我的，”彼得争辩道。

这对费莉西蒂来说是严重的异端邪说，但故事女孩看起来好像认为其中可能有什么东西。

“无论如何，你永远不会去教堂，”费莉西蒂继续说道，决心不被争论。

“好吧，在我决定要成为卫理公会教徒还是长老会教徒之前，我不会去教堂。简姨妈是卫理公会教徒。我的母亲没什么大不了的，但我想成为一个大人物。成为卫理公会或长老会或其他什么人比什么都不做更受人尊敬。当我决定自己要做什么时，我会和你一样去教堂。”

“这和生而为人不一样，”费莉西蒂傲慢地说。

“我认为选择你自己的宗教比仅仅因为你的家人有宗教就接受它要好得多，”彼得反驳道。

“现在，别介意吵架了，”塞西莉说。 “你别管彼得了，费丽西蒂。彼得，这是贝弗利·金，这是菲利克斯。我们都会成为好朋友，一起度过一个愉快的夏天。想想我们可以玩的游戏！但如果你去争吵，你就会破坏这一切。彼得，你今天打算做什么？”

“在林地里耙地，挖你奥利维亚阿姨的花坛。”

“昨天我和奥利维亚阿姨种了甜豌豆，”讲故事的女孩说，“我自己也种了一张小床。今年我不打算把它们挖出来看看它们是否发芽了。这对他们来说很糟糕。我会努力培养耐心，不管他们要花多长时间。”

“今天我要帮妈妈种植菜园，”费莉西蒂说。

“哦，我从来不喜欢菜园，”故事女孩说。 “除非我饿了。然后我确实喜欢去看那一排漂亮的洋葱和甜菜。但我喜欢花园。我想，如果我一直生活在花园里，我就会一直表现得很好。”

“亚当和夏娃一直生活在花园里，”费莉西蒂说，“他们远非总是善良的。”

“如果它们没有生活在花园里，它们可能不会活得这么久，”故事女孩说。

现在我们被叫去吃早餐。彼得和故事女孩从缝隙中溜走了，帕迪跟在后面，我们其余的人沿着果园朝房子走去。

“那么，你觉得故事女孩怎么样？”费莉西蒂问。

“她很好，”菲利克斯热情地说。 “我从来没有听过像她这样讲故事的人。”

“她不会做饭，”费莉西蒂说，“而且她的肤色也不好。请注意，她说她长大后要成为一名演员。那不是很可怕吗？”

我们并不明白为什么。

“哦，因为女演员总是邪恶的人，”费莉西蒂震惊地说。 “但我敢说故事女孩会尽快成为其中一员。她的父亲会支持她。他是一位艺术家，你知道的。”

显然，费莉西蒂认为艺术家和女演员以及所有这些可怜的垃圾都是彼此的成员。

“奥利维亚阿姨说故事女孩很迷人，”塞西莉说。

非常形容词！菲利克斯和我立刻就认出了它的美丽。是的，故事女孩很迷人，这是关于这个主题的最后一句话。

早餐吃到一半丹才下来，珍妮特姨妈用一种时尚的方式跟他说话，这让我们意识到，正如那句辛辣的乡村短语所说，最好不要用她粗鲁的舌头。但综合考虑，我们非常喜欢夏天的前景。幸福的样子——故事女孩给我们讲述奇妙的故事——塞西莉让我们钦佩——丹和彼得一起玩——理性的人还能想要什么呢？

当我们在卡莱尔住了两周后，我们就属于那里了，那里的所有小人物都被赋予了自由。与彼得和丹，与费莉西蒂、塞西莉和故事女孩，与苍白、灰眼睛的小莎拉·雷，我们是恩惠的伙伴。当然，我们去上学；我们每个人都被分配了一些家务活，要求我们忠实地完成这些家务活，并由我们负责。但我们玩的时间很长。播种结束后，就连彼得也有充足的空闲时间。

尽管存在一些细微的意见分歧，但我们基本上相处得很好。至于我们这个小世界里的成年居民，他们也适合我们。

我们很崇拜奥利维亚阿姨；她美丽、快乐、善良；最重要的是，她完美地掌握了让孩子独处的罕见艺术。如果我们保持干净，不吵架，不说俚语，奥利维亚阿姨就不会让我们担心。相反，珍妮特阿姨给了我们很多好的建议，并且不断地告诉我们要做这件事或不要做另一件事，以至于我们记不住她的一半指示，也没有尝试。

据我们所知，罗杰叔叔非常快乐，喜欢开玩笑。我们喜欢他；但我们有一种不舒服的感觉，他的言论并不总是符合我们的耳朵的意思。有时我们认为罗杰叔叔在取笑我们，而我们内心极其严肃的年轻人对此感到不满。

我们向亚历克叔叔献上了最热烈的爱。我们觉得，无论我们做了什么或没有做什么，亚历克叔叔在宫廷上始终有一个朋友。我们从来不需要把他的演讲翻来覆去地去发现它们的意义。

少年卡莱尔的社交生活集中在日间学校和主日学校。我们对主日学特别感兴趣，因为我们很幸运能被分配到一位老师，他使我们的课程变得如此有趣，以至于我们不再将参加主日学视为每周令人不快的义务；我们开始学习主日学。但相反，我很高兴地期待着它，并努力执行我们老师温和的戒律——至少在周一和周二。恐怕本周剩下的时间里，记忆会变得有点模糊。

她对宣教也很感兴趣。关于这个主题的一次演讲启发故事女孩以自己的名义做了一些家庭传教工作。她唯一能想到的就是说服彼得去教堂。

费莉西蒂不认可这个设计，并且直言不讳。

“他不会知道如何表现，因为他一生中从未进过教堂的门，”她警告故事女孩。 “他很可能会做出一些可怕的事情，然后你会感到羞耻，并希望你从未要求他离开，我们都会感到耻辱。为异教徒设立我们的螨箱，并向他们派遣传教士是可以的。他们离我们很远，我们没有必要和他们交往。但我不想和一个雇来的男孩坐在一起。”

但故事女孩却毫不畏惧地继续哄不情愿的彼得。这不是一件容易的事。彼得并不是出身于常去教堂的人。此外，他声称自己还没有决定是加入长老会还是卫理公会。

“你是谁，没有一点区别，”故事女孩恳求道。 “他们都去了天堂。”

“但是一种方法必须比另一种更容易或更好，否则它们就会都是一种，”彼得争论道。 “我想找到最简单的方法。我很渴望卫理公会。我的简姨妈是卫理公会教徒。”

“她不是还是一个吗？”费莉西蒂郑重地问道。

“嗯，我不太清楚。她死了。”彼得责备地说。 “人死后还会像以前一样吗？”

“不，当然不。那么他们就是天使——不是卫理公会或其他什么的，而只是天使。也就是说，如果他们去天堂的话。”

“难道他们去了别的地方？”

但费莉西蒂的神学在这一点上崩溃了。她转身背对彼得，轻蔑地走开了。

故事女孩又回到了正题，提出了新的论点。

“我们有一位非常可爱的牧师，彼得。他看起来就像我父亲寄给我的圣约翰的照片一样，只是他老了，头发也白了。我知道你会喜欢他。即使您要成为卫理公会教徒，去长老会教堂也不会有什么坏处。最近的卫理公会教堂位于六英里外，位于马克代尔，您现在无法去那里。去长老会教堂，直到你足够大，可以拥有一匹马。”

“但是我太喜欢成为长老会教徒了，如果我想改变也无法改变吗？”彼得反对。

总而言之，故事女孩过得很艰难。但她坚持了下来；有一天，她来找我们，宣布彼得已经屈服了。

“他明天要和我们一起去教堂，”她得意洋洋地说。

我们在罗杰叔叔的山牧场里，坐在一丛桦树下光滑的圆形石头上。我们身后是一道古老的灰色栅栏，栅栏的角落里长满了紫罗兰和蒲公英。我们下面是卡莱尔山谷，那里有果园环绕的家园和肥沃的草地。它的上端昏暗，笼罩着淡淡的春雾。风吹过田野，就像一波又一波的甜味——蕨菜和香脂的香料。

我们正在吃菲丽西蒂为我们做的小果酱“翻菜”。费莉西蒂的失误堪称完美。我看着她，想知道为什么她这么漂亮并且有能力做出这样的失误还不够。如果她更有趣就好了！费莉西蒂身上没有一丝丝故事女孩的一举一动中那种无名的魅力和诱惑，这种魅力和诱惑体现在她最轻柔的言语和最漫不经心的眼神中。啊，一个人不可能拥有每一件好礼物！故事女孩纤细的棕色手腕上没有酒窝。

除了萨拉·雷（Sara Ray）之外，我们都很享受失误。她吃了她的，但她知道她不应该这样做。她的母亲不赞成在两餐之间吃零食，也不赞成随时更换果酱。有一次，当萨拉在棕色的研究中时，我问她在想什么。

“我正在想一些妈妈没有禁止的事情，”她叹了口气回答道。

听到彼得要去教堂，我们都很高兴，除了费莉西蒂。她心里充满了不祥的预感和警告。

“我对你感到很惊讶，费莉西蒂·金。”塞西莉严厉地说。 “你应该感到高兴，这个可怜的男孩将以正确的方式开始。”

“他最好的一条裤子上有一个很大的补丁，”费利西蒂抗议道。

“嗯，这比一个洞好。”讲故事的女孩优雅地回答自己的失误。 “上帝不会注意到这个补丁。”

“不会，但卡莱尔人会的。”费莉西蒂反驳道，语气中暗示着卡莱尔人的想法要重要得多。 “而且我不相信彼得有一双像样的袜子。如果他去教堂时腿上的皮肤从洞里露出来，故事女孩小姐，你会有什么感觉？”

“我一点也不害怕。”故事女孩坚定地说。 “彼得比这更清楚。”

“好吧，我只希望他能洗一下耳后。”费莉西蒂无奈地说。

“帕特今天怎么样？”塞西莉改变话题问道。

“帕特的情况也好不到哪里去。他只是在厨房里闷闷不乐。”故事女孩焦急地说。 “我走到谷仓，看到一只老鼠。我手里拿着一根棍子，我猛地一挥——就这样。我把它打死了。然后我把它交给帕迪。你会相信吗？他甚至都不会看它。我很担心。罗杰叔叔说他需要一剂药物。但如何让他接受，这就是问题。我在牛奶中混合了粉末，并试图将其倒入他的喉咙，同时彼得抱着他。看看我身上的划痕吧！牛奶流得到处都是，除了帕特的喉咙。”

“如果——如果帕特出了什么事，那不是很糟糕吗？”塞西莉小声说道。

“好吧，我们可以举办一个愉快的葬礼，你知道，”丹说。

我们惊恐地看着他，丹赶紧道歉。

“如果帕特死了，我自己也会非常难过。但如果他真的这么做了，我们就必须给他举办一场合适的葬礼，”他​​抗议道。 “为什么，帕迪看起来就像是这个家庭的一员。”

故事女孩完成了翻身，躺在草地上，双手托着下巴，望着天空。她像往常一样光着头，猩红色的丝带呈圆角状绑在头上。她在头发周围缠绕着刚采摘的蒲公英，效果就像是她光滑的棕色卷发上有一顶闪亮的金色星星王冠。

“看看上面那片又长又薄的花边云，”她说。 “女孩们，这让你想到什么？”

“婚纱，”塞西莉说。

“这就是它——骄傲公主的结婚头纱。我知道一个关于它的故事。我在书上读到过。从前”——故事女孩的眼睛变得梦幻，她的口音像风吹过的玫瑰花瓣一样飘散在夏日的空气中——“有一位公主，她是世界上最美丽的公主，各国的国王都来了向她求婚。但她既美丽又骄傲。她嘲笑她所有的追求者。当她父亲催促她选择其中一位作为她的丈夫时，她傲慢地挺起身子——所以——”

故事女孩跳了起来，一瞬间我们看到了古老故事中骄傲的公主，充满了轻蔑的可爱——

“她说，

“‘直到有一位能够征服所有国王的国王到来之前，我不会结婚。那时我将成为世界之王的妻子，没有人能比我更高。”

“因此，每个国王都发动战争来证明他可以征服其他所有人，并且充满了流血和痛苦。但这位骄傲的公主又笑又唱，她和她的侍女们正在制作一件精美的蕾丝面纱，她打算在万王之王到来时戴上它。这是一块非常漂亮的面纱；但她的侍女们低声说，一个男人死了，一个女人的心每缝一针都碎了。

“正当一个国王以为他已经征服了所有人的时候，另一个国王就会来征服他；就这样一直持续下去，直到这位骄傲的公主似乎根本不可能找到丈夫。但她的骄傲仍然如此强烈，以至于她不会屈服，尽管除了那些想娶她的国王之外，每个人都因她所造成的痛苦而憎恨她。有一天，宫门口吹响了号角；其中有一个高大的男子，全副武装，面罩低下，骑着一匹白马。当他说他要迎娶公主时，大家都笑了，因为他没有随从，没有漂亮的衣服，也没有金冠。

“‘但我是征服所有国王的国王，’他说。

“‘在我嫁给你之前，你必须证明这一点，’骄傲的公主说道。但她浑身颤抖，脸色苍白，因为他的声音里有某种让她害怕的东西。而他笑起来的时候，笑声更加的可怕。

“‘我可以很容易地证明这一点，美丽的公主，’他说，‘但你必须跟我一起去我的王国寻找证据。现在嫁给我吧，你、我、你的父亲以及你所有的宫廷成员将立即骑马前往我的王国；如果你不满意我是征服所有国王的国王，你可以把我的戒指还给我，然后永远不受我束缚地回家。

“这是一次奇怪的求爱，公主的朋友们恳求她拒绝。但她的骄傲却低声说，如果能成为世界之王的王后，那该是多么美妙的事情啊；于是她同意了；她的侍女们给她穿好衣服，并戴上那件多年来一直制作的长蕾丝面纱。然后他们立刻结婚了，但新郎从未掀起他的面纱，也没有人看到他的脸。这位骄傲的公主比以往任何时候都更加骄傲，但她的皮肤却像她的面纱一样洁白。婚礼上没有应有的笑声或欢乐，每个人都用恐惧的眼神看着其他人。

“婚礼结束后，新郎骑着白马将新娘举到面前，她的父亲和所有宫廷成员也骑上马跟在他们后面。他们一路前行，天色越来越暗，风呼啸而过，夜幕降临。就在暮色中，他们骑马进入了一个黑暗的山谷，那里布满了坟墓和坟墓。

“‘你为什么带我来这里？’高傲的公主愤怒地叫道。

“‘这是我的王国，’他回答道。 “这些是我征服过的国王的坟墓。看我吧，美丽的公主。我就是死神！

“他抬起了面罩。所有人都看到了他那张可怕的脸。骄傲的公主尖叫起来。

“‘到我怀里来吧，我的新娘，’他喊道。 “我公平地赢得了你。我是征服一切王的王！”

“他将她昏厥的身躯抱在胸前，策马白马奔向坟墓。一场暴风雨席卷山谷，将他们从视线中抹去。非常悲伤的是，老国王和朝臣们骑马回家，人们再也没有见过这位骄傲的公主。但当那些长长的白云掠过天空时，她居住的土地上的乡下人会说：“你看，这是骄傲公主的婚纱。”

故事女孩讲完后，这个故事的怪异魔力在我们身上停留了一会儿。我们和她一起走过死亡之地，我们因恐惧而变得寒冷，这让可怜的公主的心感到寒冷。丹很快就打破了这个咒语。

“你看，太骄傲是不行的，费莉西蒂，”他说道，戳了戳她。 “关于彼得的补丁，你最好不要说太多。”

第二天下午没有主日学，因为校长和老师希望参加马克代尔的圣餐仪式。卡莱尔服务是在晚上，日落时分，我们在亚历克叔叔的前门等待彼得和故事女孩。

没有一个成年人去教堂。奥利维亚姨妈头疼得厉害，罗杰姨父留在家里陪着她。珍妮特阿姨和亚历克叔叔去参加了马克代尔的葬礼，还没有回来。

费莉西蒂和塞西莉第一次穿上了新的夏季平纹细布，并且敏锐地意识到了这一点。费莉西蒂粉白相间的脸庞，在她低垂的、戴着勿忘我花环的来亨帽的阴影下，和往常一样美丽。但塞西莉整晚都用卷发纸折磨着她的头发，头上长满了乱七八糟的卷发，这完全破坏了她那小脸上甜美的修女般的表情。塞西莉对命运怀有怨恨，因为她没有像其他两个女孩那样拥有自然卷发。但她至少在周日实现了自己的心愿，而且很满足。不可能让她相信平日里那丝缎般光滑的光泽更适合她。

不久，彼得和故事女孩出现了，我们或多或少都松了口气，看到彼得看起来相当受人尊敬，尽管他的裤子上有无可争议的补丁。他脸色红润，浓密的黑色卷发梳理得很光滑，领带打得整整齐齐。但我们最焦急地审视的是他的腿。乍一看，它们似乎还不错；但事实上，它们似乎还不错。但仔细观察后发现，有些东西并不完全符合惯例。

“彼得，你的袜子怎么了？”丹直截了当地问道。

“哦，我没有一双腿上没有洞的鞋，”彼得轻松地回答，“因为妈妈这周没有时间补它们。所以我穿了两双。这些洞并不出现在同一个地方，除非你仔细观察，否则你永远不会注意到它们。”

“你有一分钱可以收藏吗？”费莉西蒂问道。

“我有一枚洋基美分。我想这样就可以了，不是吗？”

费莉西蒂用力摇头。

“哦，不，不。向商店老板或鸡蛋小贩传递一分钱也许没问题，但对教堂来说绝对不行。”

“那我就只好不带任何东西了，”彼得说。 “我一分钱都没有了。我每周只拿五十美分，昨晚我把所有的钱都给了妈妈。”

但彼得必须有一分钱。费莉西蒂宁愿自己送他一枚——而且她的铜币也不算太奢侈——也不愿让他没有一枚。然而，丹借给了他一张，并明确表示要在下周偿还。

这时，罗杰叔叔走过来，看到彼得，说道：

“‘扫罗也在先知之列吗？’彼得，当奥利维亚温柔的劝说都无济于事时，是什么促使你去教堂呢？我想那是一个非常非常古老的论点——‘美用一根头发就吸引着我们。’”

罗杰叔叔疑惑地看着费莉西蒂。我们不知道他的引语是什么意思，但我们知道他认为彼得去教堂是因为费利西蒂。费莉希蒂摇摇头。

“他去教堂不是我的错，”她没好气地说。 “这是故事女孩干的事。”

罗杰叔叔在门口的台阶上坐下来，无声地、内心爆发出阵阵笑声，我们都觉得这很令人恼火。他摇摇头，闭上眼睛，低声说道：

“不是她的错！哦，费丽西蒂，费丽西蒂，如果你不小心的话，你亲爱的叔叔就会死掉。”

费莉西蒂愤怒地出发了，我们跟在后面，在山脚下接上了萨拉·雷。

卡莱尔教堂是一座非常老式的教堂，有一座长满常春藤的方形塔楼。它被高大的榆树遮蔽，墓地将它完全包围，许多坟墓就在它的窗户下面。我们总是沿着拐角小路穿过它，经过国王的土地，我们四代人的亲属都睡在光影摇曳的绿色孤独中。

墓碑上有金曾祖父的平坦墓碑，墓碑是粗糙的岛屿砂岩，上面长满了常春藤，我们几乎看不清上面那长长的铭文，它简短地记录了他的整个历史，最后是他的遗孀创作的八行原创诗句。我不认为诗歌是金曾祖母的强项。当菲利克斯在卡莱尔的第一个周日读到这首诗时，他半信半疑地说它看起来像诗，但听起来不像。

艾米丽也睡在那里，据说她忠实的灵魂会出没在果园里。但亲吻诗人的伊迪丝并没有与她的亲属同眠。她死在了遥远的异国他乡，她的坟墓周围响起了异国海洋的低语声。

白色大理石碑上装饰着垂柳树，标明了金祖父和祖母的埋葬地点，费利西蒂姑妈和费利克斯叔叔的坟墓之间矗立着一根红色苏格兰花岗岩竖井。故事女孩留下来，把一束野紫罗兰放在她母亲的坟墓上，紫罗兰呈雾蓝色，略带甜味。然后她大声朗读石头上的诗句。

“‘他们生前可爱又愉快，死后也没有分裂。’”

她的声调衬托出那首美妙的古老哀歌的凄美、不朽的美丽和悲怆。女孩们擦了擦眼睛；我们这些男孩觉得，如果没有人注意的话，我们也可能会这样做。有什么墓志铭比说他一生可爱又令人愉快更好呢？当我听到故事女孩读到它时，我对自己下了一个秘密契约，我会努力配得上这样一个墓志铭。

“我希望我有一块家庭土地，”彼得颇为渴望地说。 “我没有你们这些家伙拥有的任何东西。克雷格一家就埋在他们死的任何地方。”

“我希望死后能埋在这里，”菲利克斯说。 “但我希望这不会持续很长一段时间，”当我们继续前往教堂时，他用更活泼的语气补充道。

教堂的内部和外部一样老式。里面配有方形长凳。讲坛是一个“酒杯”式的讲坛，要通过一段又陡又窄的台阶才能到达。亚历克叔叔的座位位于教堂的顶部，离讲坛很近。

彼得的出现并没有像我们所期待的那样引起人们的注意。确实，似乎根本没有人注意到他。灯还没有亮，教堂里充满了柔和的暮色和寂静。外面，天空是紫色、金色和银绿色的，榆树上方有一朵精致的玫瑰色云朵。

“这里不是非常美好、神圣吗？”彼得恭敬地低声说道。 “我不知道教堂是这样的。这真好。”

费莉西蒂皱着眉头看着他，故事女孩用穿着拖鞋的脚碰了碰她，提醒他不能在教堂里说话。仪式期间，彼得全身僵硬，立正坐着。没有人能表现得更好。但是，当布道结束，收集的藏品被收集起来时，他引起了他的入场所没有产生的轰动。

弗雷文长老，一个身材高大、面色苍白、留着长长的沙色胡须的男人，拿着捐款盘出现在我们的座位门口。我们很了解弗雷文长老，也很喜欢他。他是珍妮特姨妈的表弟，经常去看望她。他平日里的欢乐与周日那副超凡脱俗的严肃表情之间的对比总是让我们觉得非常有趣。这似乎让彼得大吃一惊。因为当彼得把他的硬币扔进盘子里时，他大声笑了！

每个人都看着我们的座位。我一直想知道为什么费莉西蒂没有当场羞辱而死。故事女孩变成了白色，塞西莉变成了红色。至于那个可怜的、倒霉的彼得，他的脸色羞愧得令人可怜。在接下来的仪式中，他再也没有抬起过头。他像一只被打败的狗一样跟着我们穿过过道，穿过墓地。我们谁也没有说一句话，直到我们躺在五月之夜的白色月光下，到达路边。然后费莉西蒂打破了紧张的沉默，对故事女孩说道：

“我已经告诉过你了！”

故事女孩没有回应。彼得侧身靠近她。

“我非常抱歉，”他悔恨地说。 “我从来没有想过要笑。它就在我阻止自己之前发生了。原来是这样——”

“你永远别再跟我说话了。”故事女孩说道，语气冰冷，充满愤怒。 “去成为一名卫理公会教徒，或者一名伊斯兰教徒，或者任何其他人！我不在乎你是什么！你羞辱了我！”

她和莎拉·雷一起走开了，彼得一脸惊恐地回到我们身边。

“我对她做了什么？”他低声说道。 “这个大字是什么意思？”

“哦，没关系，”我生气地说——因为我觉得彼得让我们蒙羞了——“她只是生气了——这也不足为奇。是什么让你表现得如此疯狂，彼得？”

“呃，我不是故意的。在那之前我想笑两次但没有笑。是故事女孩的故事让我想笑，所以我认为她对我生气是不公平的。如果她不想让我看到别人的时候笑，她就不应该给我讲别人的故事。当我看着塞缪尔·沃德时，我想起了一天晚上他在聚会中起床，并祈祷他在心烦意乱和情绪低落时得到引导。我想起她把他脱下来的样子，我想笑。然后我看着讲坛，想起她讲的故事，讲的是一位老苏格兰牧师，他太胖了，进不了讲坛的门，不得不用两只手扶着讲坛，然后低声对我说：另一位部长，以便每个人都听到他的声音。

“”这扇讲坛门是为斯佩雷特制作的’——我想笑。然后弗雷温先生来了——我想起了她关于他的胡须的故事——当他的第一任妻子死于肺部的信息时，他如何去追求西莉亚·沃德，西莉亚告诉他，除非他把胡须剃掉，否则她不会嫁给他。 。而他也不会这么做，只是因为他很固执。有一天，当他正在燃烧灌木丛时，其中一个着火了，然后被烧毁，每个人都认为他必须把另一个剃掉。但他没有，只是用一根胡须绕来绕去，直到烧焦的胡须长出来。然后西莉亚屈服了，接受了他，因为她看到他没有屈服的希望。我只记得那个故事，我想我可以看到他，如此庄严地拿起一分钱，留着一根长胡须；在我忍不住之前，笑声就自己笑了。”

我们当场大笑起来，这让刚刚开车经过的亚伯拉罕·沃德夫人感到非常害怕，她第二天过来告诉珍妮特阿姨，我们在从教堂回家的路上“表现得很可耻”。我们自己都感到羞愧，因为我们知道人们在周日出行时应该表现得体、有秩序。但是，就像彼得一样，它“自己也笑了”。

就连费莉西蒂也笑了。费莉西蒂并没有像人们想象的那样对彼得那么生气。她甚至走在他身边，让他拿着她的圣经。他们的谈话相当保密。也许她更容易原谅他，因为他证明了她的预测是正确的，从而使她对故事女孩有了决定性的胜利。

“我会继续去教堂，”彼得告诉她。 “我喜欢。布道比我想象的更有趣，而且我喜欢唱歌。我希望我能决定是加入长老会还是卫理公会。我想我可以向部长们询问此事。”

“哦，不，不，不要这样做，”费莉西蒂惊慌地说。 “部长们不想被此类问题困扰。”

“为什么不？如果牧师不告诉人们如何去天堂，他们还有什么用呢？”

“哦，好吧，大人问他们问题当然可以。但这是对小男孩的不尊重，尤其是受雇的男孩。”

“我不明白为什么。但无论如何，我认为这没有多大用处，因为如果他是一名长老会牧师，他会说我应该成为一名长老会教徒，如果他是一名卫理公会教徒，他会告诉我也应该成为一名长老会教徒。看看这里，费莉西蒂，他们之间有什么区别？”

“我——我不知道，”费莉西蒂不情愿地说。 “我想孩子们无法理解这些事情。当然，如果我们只知道它是什么，那么肯定存在很大的差异。无论如何，我是一名长老会教徒，我对此感到高兴。”

我们默默地走了一会儿，想着自己年轻时的想法。不久，彼得突然提出了一个令人吃惊的问题，他们被分散了。

“上帝是什么样子？”他说。

看来我们谁也不知道。

“故事女孩可能会知道，”塞西莉说。

“我希望我知道，”彼得严肃地说。 “我希望我能看到上帝的照片。这会让他看起来更真实。”

“我经常想知道他长什么样，”费莉西蒂自信满满地说。看起来，即使是在费莉西蒂身上，也有一些未被探索的思想深处。

“我看过耶稣的照片，”菲利克斯若有所思地说。 “他看起来就像一个男人，只是更好、更友善。但现在想起来，我从来没有见过上帝的照片。”

“好吧，如果多伦多没有，那么其他地方也不可能有，”彼得失望地说。 “我曾经看过一张魔鬼的照片，”他补充道。 “这是我简姨妈的一本书里的。她在学校获得了奖品。我的简姨妈很聪明。”

“如果里面有这样的图片，那它就不会是一本很好的书，”费利西蒂说。

“这真是一本好书。我的简姨妈不会有一本不好的书。”彼得阴沉地反驳道。

他拒绝进一步讨论这个话题，这让我们有些失望。因为我们从未见过所提到的人的照片，对此我们感到很好奇。

“当彼得心情好一点的时候，我们会请他描述一下，”菲利克斯低声说道。

莎拉·雷（Sara Ray）在自己的门口上车，我跑到前面去和故事女孩会合，然后我们一起走上山。她的心情恢复了平静，但没有提及彼得。当我们到达小巷，经过金爷爷的大柳树下时，果园的香味像波浪一样扑面而来。我们可以看到长长的一排树，月光下一片白色的欢乐。我们觉得这个果园里有一些与我们所知道的其他果园不同的东西。我们太年轻，无法分析这种模糊的感觉。后来的几年里，我们才明白，这是因为果园里不仅盛开着苹果花，而且盛开着所有的爱、信仰、欢乐、纯粹的幸福和纯粹的悲伤，那些人创造了它并走过了那里。

“月光下的果园完全不一样了。”故事女孩若有所思地说。 “这很可爱，但又不同。当我很小的时候，我曾经相信仙女们会在月光之夜在里面跳舞。我现在很想相信，但我不能。”

“为什么不？”

“哦，很难相信你所知道的事情不是真的。爱德华叔叔告诉我，世界上没有仙女这种东西。我当时才七岁。他是一名牧师，所以我当然知道他说的是实话。告诉我是他的责任，我不怪他，但从那以后我对爱德华叔叔再也没有同样的感觉了。”

啊，对于那些摧毁我们幻想的人，我们是否也有“同样的感觉”？我是否能够原谅那个首先告诉我圣诞老人并不存在的残忍生物？他是个男孩，比我大三岁；据我所知，他现在可能成为社会上最有用、最受尊敬的成员，受到同类的爱戴。但我知道他对我来说一定是什么样子！

我们在亚历克叔叔的门口等其他人上来。彼得羞愧地躲进了阴影里。但故事女孩短暂的、苦涩的愤怒已经消失了。

“等我，彼得，”她喊道。

她走到他身边，伸出了手。

“我原谅你，”她和蔼地说。

我和菲利克斯都觉得冒犯她真的很值得，只是能得到她这么可爱的声音的原谅。彼得急切地握住她的手。

“我告诉你，故事女孩，我很抱歉我在教堂里笑了，但你不必担心我会再次笑。不，先生！我会定期去教堂和主日学，每晚都会祈祷。我想像你们其他人一样。看这里！我想起了简阿姨过去给猫喂药的方式。你把粉末和猪油混合，然后涂在他的爪子和身体两侧，他会把它舔掉，因为猫无法忍受脏乱。如果帕迪明天没有好转，我们就这么做。”

他们像孩子一样手牵着手，沿着月光交错的云杉小径走去。那片鲜花盛开的新鲜土地上充满了和平，我们小小的心灵也充满了和平。

第二天，帕迪被涂上了药猪油，我们所有人都在协助仪式，尽管故事女孩是高级女祭司。然后，出于对席子和坐垫的尊重，他被关在粮仓里，直到他把皮毛舔干净为止。这样的治疗每天重复进行一周，帕特恢复了平常的健康和精神，我们也安心地享受下一个兴奋的事情——为学校图书馆基金收集资金。

我们的老师认为如果学校能有一个图书馆是一件很棒的事情。他建议每个学生都应该尝试看看他或她在六月份可以为该项目筹集多少钱。我们可以通过诚实的劳动来赚取它，或者通过向我们的朋友征收捐款来收集它。

结果是一场激烈的竞争，看哪个学生应该收集最多的钱。在我们的小圈子里，这种竞争尤其激烈。

我们的亲戚每人给了我们25美分。剩下的事情，我们知道必须靠自己的努力。彼得一开始就遇到了困难，因为他没有家人朋友来资助他。

“如果我的简阿姨还活着，她会给我一些东西，”他说。 “如果我父亲没有逃跑，他可能也会给我一些东西。但无论如何我都会尽力而为。你的奥利维亚姨妈说我可以从事收集鸡蛋的工作，而且我要从一打鸡蛋中拿出一个卖给自己。”

费莉西蒂与她母亲也达成了类似的协议。故事女孩和塞西莉每人每周能得到十美分，因为他们在各自家里洗碗。菲利克斯和丹签订了合同，要求花园里没有杂草。我在西边的云杉山谷里抓到了溪鳟鱼，每条卖一美分。

莎拉·雷是我们当中唯一一个不开心的人。她无能为力。除了她的母亲之外，她在卡莱尔没有任何亲戚，她的母亲不赞成学校图书馆的项目，也不会给萨拉一分钱，也不让她以任何方式赚钱。对于莎拉来说，这是难以形容的屈辱。她觉得自己在我们忙碌的小圈子里是个被遗弃者和陌生人，每个成员每天都怀着吝啬的喜悦数着自己慢慢增加的小额现金储备。

“我只能祈求上帝给我一些钱，”她最后绝望地宣布。

“我不相信这会有任何好处，”丹说。 “他给了很多东西，但他不给钱，因为人们可以自己挣钱。”

“我不能，”萨拉带着强烈的反抗说道。 “我认为他应该考虑到这一点。”

“别担心，亲爱的，”塞西莉说，她总是倒香膏。 “如果你收不到钱，每个人都会知道这不是你的错。”

“如果我不能给它一些东西，我就永远不想在图书馆读一本书，”萨拉哀悼道。

丹、女儿们和我坐在奥利维亚姨妈花园的栅栏上，看着菲利克斯除草。菲利克斯干得很好，尽管他不喜欢除草——“胖男孩从来不喜欢除草，”费利西蒂告诉他。菲利克斯假装没听见，但我知道他听见了，因为他的耳朵红了。菲利克斯的脸从来没有红过，但他的耳朵却总是出卖他。至于费莉西蒂，她说出这样的话并不是出于恶意。她万万没有想到菲利克斯不喜欢被人称为胖子。

“我总是为这些可怜的杂草感到难过。”故事女孩梦幻般地说。 “被连根拔起肯定很难。”

“它们不应该生长在错误的地方。”费莉西蒂无情地说。

“当杂草去天堂时，我想它们会变成花朵，”故事女孩继续说道。

“你的想法确实很奇怪，”费莉西蒂说。

“多伦多的一位富翁在他的花园里有一个花钟，”我说。 “它看起来就像一个钟面，里面有每小时开放的花朵，这样你就可以随时知道时间。”

“哦，我希望我们这里也有一个，”塞西莉惊呼道。

“它有什么用？”故事女孩有些不屑的问道。 “没有人想知道花园里的时间。”

我这时溜走了，突然想起是时候服用一剂神奇种子了。三天前我在学校从比利·罗宾逊那里买了它。比利向我保证这会让我快速成长。

我开始暗暗担心，因为我没有成长。我无意中听到珍妮特姨妈说我会像亚历克叔叔一样矮。现在，我爱亚历克叔叔，但我想比他高。因此，当比利在庄严的保密承诺下向我透露，他有一些“神奇的种子”，可以让男孩成长，并且愿意以十美分的价格卖给我一盒时，我欣然接受了这个提议。比利比卡莱尔同龄的任何男孩都高，他向我保证这一切都来自于服用魔法种子。

“在我开始之前，我就是一个普通的矮子，”他说，“看看现在的我。我从佩格·鲍文那里得到的。她是个女巫，你知道的。我不会再为了一蒲式耳魔法种子而靠近她。这是一次可怕的经历。我所剩无几，但我想我已经足够了，直到我长到我想要的高度。你必须每三个小时取一点种子，倒着走，而且你绝对不能告诉任何人你正在取它，否则它不会起作用。除了你，我不会把任何东西留给任何人。”

我对比利深表感激，并为自己没有更喜欢他而感到遗憾。不知何故，没有人比比利·罗宾逊更喜欢他。但我发誓我将来会喜欢他。我高高兴兴地付给他十美分，按照指示服用了魔法种子，每天通过大厅门上的标记仔细地测量自己。我还没有看到任何生长的进步，但我只服用了三天。

有一天，故事女孩有了灵感。

“让我们去向尴尬人和坎贝尔先生请求为图书馆基金捐款吧，”她说。 “我确信没有人问过他们，因为卡莱尔没有人与他们有关系。让我们都走吧，如果他们给我们任何东西，我们都会平分。”

这是一个大胆的提议，因为坎贝尔先生和尴尬的人都被认为是古怪的人物。坎贝尔先生应该讨厌孩子。但故事女孩所带领的地方，我们将追随至死。第二天是星期六，我们下午就出发了。

我们抄近路前往黄金里程碑，经过一片长长的、绿色的、露水的土地，长满了平静的草地，阳光已经在那里沉睡了。起初一切并不和谐。费莉西蒂心情不好。她本来想穿第二好的衣服，但珍妮特阿姨规定她的校服足以“在灰尘中漫步”。然后故事女孩来了，她没有穿任何第二好的衣服，而是穿着她父亲从巴黎送给她的最好的衣服和帽子——一件柔软的深红色丝绸衣服，戴着一顶白色的来亨帽，帽子周围环绕着火红色的罂粟花。费莉西蒂和塞西莉都无法佩戴它；但它完美地成为了故事女孩。在这幅画中，她充满了火焰、欢笑和光芒，仿佛她的气质中独特的魅力在其生动的色彩和丝绸的质地中是可见和有形的。

“我不认为你会穿上最好的衣服去图书馆乞讨，”费利西蒂尖刻地说。

“奥利维亚阿姨说，当你要接受一个男人的重要采访时，你应该表现得最好，”故事女孩一边说，一边把裙子卷成有光泽的漩涡，并享受着这种效果。

“奥利维亚阿姨太宠你了，”费莉西蒂说。

“她也没有，费莉西蒂·金！奥利维亚阿姨很可爱。她每天晚上都会吻我道晚安，而你妈妈却从不吻你。”

“我妈妈不那么常见接吻，”费莉西蒂反驳道。 “但她每天都会给我们做馅饼当晚餐。”

“奥利维亚阿姨也是。”

“是的，但是看看碎片的大小差异！奥利维亚阿姨只给你脱脂牛奶。我妈妈给我们奶油。”

“奥利维亚阿姨的脱脂牛奶和你妈妈的奶油一样好。”故事女孩激动地喊道。

“哦，女孩们，不要打架，”和平缔造者塞西莉说。 “今天真是美好的一天，如果你不因为打架而破坏了它，我们会度过一段愉快的时光。”

“我们不是在打架，”费莉西蒂说。 “我喜欢奥利维亚阿姨。但我妈妈和奥利维亚阿姨一样好，现在就在那里！”

“她当然是。珍妮特阿姨太棒了。”讲故事的女孩同意道。

他们友好地互相微笑。费莉西蒂和故事女孩确实很喜欢彼此，但在他们的交往中通常会产生奇怪的表面摩擦。

“你说过你曾经知道过一个关于尴尬男人的故事，”菲利克斯说。 “你可以告诉我们。”

“好吧，”故事女孩同意道。 “唯一的麻烦是，我不知道整个故事。但我会告诉你我所知道的一切。我称之为“黄金里程碑之谜。”

“哦，我不相信这个故事是真的，”费莉西蒂说。 “我相信格里格斯夫人只是在谈恋爱。妈妈说，她很浪漫。”

“是的;但我不相信她自己能想到这样的事情，所以我相信这一定是真的。”故事女孩说道。 “无论如何，这就是故事，孩子们。你知道，自从十年前他的母亲去世后，尴尬的男人就一直独自生活。阿贝尔·格里格斯是他的雇工，他和他的妻子住在尴尬人巷子里的一栋小房子里。格里格斯夫人为他做面包，她时不时地打扫他的房子。她说他把东西收拾得非常整洁。但直到去年秋天，还有一个房间她从未见过。门总是锁着的——西边的那扇，俯瞰着他的花园。去年秋天的一天，这个尴尬的男人去了萨默赛德，格里格斯太太擦洗了他的厨房。然后她巡视了整个房子，试了试西房的门。格里格斯夫人是一位非常好奇的女人。罗杰叔叔说所有女人都有尽可能多的好奇心，但格里格斯夫人的好奇心更多。她预计会发现门像往常一样锁着。它没有锁。她打开门进去了。你认为她发现了什么？

“比如——比如蓝胡子的房间？”菲利克斯用惊恐的语气说道。

“哦，不，不！爱德华王子岛不会发生这样的事情。但如果有美丽的妻子把头发挂在墙上，我不相信格里格斯夫人会更加惊讶。在他母亲时代，这个房间从未布置过，但现在布置得很优雅，尽管格里格斯夫人说她不知道这些家具何时或如何被带到那里。她说她从未在乡村农舍见过这样的房间。它就像卧室和客厅的结合体。地板上铺着绿色天鹅绒般的地毯。窗户上挂着精美的蕾丝窗帘，墙上挂着漂亮的图画。房间里有一张白色的小床，一张梳妆台，一个装满书籍的书柜，一个上面放着工作篮的架子，还有一张摇椅。书柜上方有一张女人的照片。格里格斯夫人说，她认为这是一张彩色照片，但她不知道是谁。不管怎样，那是一个非常漂亮的女孩。但最令人惊奇的是，一件女装挂在桌边的椅子上。格里格斯夫人说它从来不属于贾斯珀·戴尔的母亲，因为她认为除了印花和毒品之外穿任何衣服都是一种罪过；这件衣服是淡蓝色丝绸做的。除此之外，旁边的地板上还放着一双蓝色的缎面拖鞋——高跟拖鞋。书的扉页上写着“爱丽丝”这个名字。现在，戴尔的联系中从来没有爱丽丝，也没有人听说过那个尴尬的男人有一个情人。怎么样，这不是一个可爱的谜团吗？”

“这是一个非常奇怪的故事，”菲利克斯说。 “我想知道这是否属实——以及它意味着什么。”

“我想知道这是什么意思。”故事女孩说道。 “我打算找个时间去认识一下那个尴尬的男人，然后我就会发现他的爱丽丝秘密。”

“我不知道你怎样才能认识他，”费利西蒂说。 “除了教堂，他从不去任何地方。当他不工作的时候，他就呆在家里看书。母亲说他是一个完美的隐士。”

“我会想办法解决的，”故事女孩说——我们毫不怀疑她会的。 “不过我得等我长大一点，他不会把西房的秘密告诉一个小女孩。”我不能等到我太老了，因为他害怕成年女孩，因为他认为她们会嘲笑他的笨拙。我知道我会喜欢他。即使他很尴尬，他的脸还是那么好看。他看起来像是一个你可以向他倾诉事情的人。”

“嗯，我想要一个可以四处走动而不会摔倒的人，”费利西蒂说。 “还有他的样子！罗杰叔叔说他又长又瘦，又瘦又窄。”

“罗杰叔叔说的时候，事情听起来总是比实际情况更糟糕，”讲故事的女孩说。 “爱德华叔叔说贾斯珀·戴尔是一个非常聪明的人，很遗憾他没能完成大学课程。你知道，他读了两年大学。后来他的父亲去世了，他和母亲一起呆在家里，因为她的母亲非常娇弱。我称他为英雄。我想知道他是否真的写诗。格里格斯夫人说是的。她说她看到他把这句话写在一本棕色的书上。她说她距离不够近，无法阅读它，但从形式上看，她知道这是一首诗。”

“很可能。如果那个蓝色丝绸连衣裙的故事是真的，我会相信他的一切。”费利西蒂说。

我们现在已经接近黄金里程碑了。房子很大，呈灰色，长满了藤蔓和攀缘玫瑰。第二层的三扇方形窗户让它看起来像是在通过藤蔓友好地向我们眨眼——至少故事女孩是这么说的；事实上，在她向我们指出过之后，我们就可以亲眼看到这一点。

然而我们没有进屋。我们在他的院子里遇到了那个尴尬的人，他给了我们每人四分之一的图书馆费用。他看起来并不尴尬或害羞；但那时我们还只是孩子，而他的脚却踏在了他的原生荒地上。

他身材高大，身材修长，看上去不像四十岁的样子，高高的雪白额头毫无皱纹，深蓝色的大眼睛那么清澈明亮，乌黑的长发那么没有银丝。他手脚很大，走路时微微弯腰。当故事女孩和他说话时，恐怕我们很粗鲁地盯着他。但是，一个尴尬的男人，同时也是一个隐士，把蓝色丝绸衣服放在一个锁着的房间里，并且可能写诗，难道不是一个合理的好奇对象吗？我把它留给你。

当我们离开时，我们交换了意见，发现我们都喜欢他——尽管他没说什么，而且似乎很高兴摆脱我们。

“他像个绅士一样给了我们钱，”故事女孩说。 “我觉得他并不怨恨。现在轮到坎贝尔先生了。为了他，我穿上了我的红丝绸。我想那个尴尬的人根本没有注意到这一点，但坎贝尔先生会注意到，否则我就大错特错了。”

我们其他人对拜访坎贝尔先生并不像故事女孩那样热情。我们暗自害怕。如果真如所说，他讨厌孩子，谁知道我们会受到什么样的接待呢？

坎贝尔先生是一位富有的退休农民，生活轻松。他访问过纽约、波士顿、多伦多和蒙特利尔；他甚至曾远至太平洋海岸。因此，卡莱尔认为他是一位游历广泛的人。他以“博览群书”和聪明而闻名。但众所周知，坎贝尔先生的幽默感并不总是很好。如果他喜欢你，他就不会为你做任何事；如果他不喜欢你——好吧，你并不是不知道这一点。总之，我们的印象是，坎贝尔先生很像那个著名的额头中间有一卷卷发的小女孩。 “当他好的时候，他非常非常好，当他坏的时候，他就很可怕。”如果这是他最可怕的日子之一怎么办？

“你知道，他不能对我们做任何事，”故事女孩说。 “他可能很粗鲁，但这不会伤害任何人，除了他自己。”

“严厉的话不会伤到骨头，”费莉西蒂哲学地说道。

“但他们伤害了你的感情。 “我害怕坎贝尔先生。”塞西莉坦白地说。

“也许我们最好放弃并回家，”丹建议道。

“你愿意就回家吧。”故事女孩轻蔑地说。 “但我要去见坎贝尔先生。我知道我能对付他。但请注意，如果我必须独自前往，而他给了我任何东西，我会保留所有东西作为我自己的收藏。”

这就解决了。我们不会让故事女孩在收集方面领先于我们。

坎贝尔先生的管家把我们领进他的客厅，然后就离开了。不久，坎贝尔先生本人就站在门口，打量着我们。我们怀着恩典的心。这似乎是他的美好时光之一，因为他那张刮得干干净净、五官鲜明的宽脸上挂着一抹古怪的微笑。坎贝尔先生身材高大，脑袋很大，长着浓密的黑发，上面有灰色的条纹。他有一双又大又黑的眼睛，周围有许多皱纹，还有一张薄而坚挺的长嘴唇。我们认为他对于一个老人来说很英俊。

他的目光带着毫不恭维的冷漠扫过我们，直到落在靠在扶手椅上的故事女孩身上。她的态度带着未经雕琢的优雅，看起来像一朵纤细的红百合。坎贝尔先生的黑眼睛里闪出了火花。

“这是主日学代表团吗？”他颇为讽刺地问道。

“不。我们是来请你帮忙的。”故事女孩说道。

她声音的魔力对坎贝尔先生产生了影响，就像对其他所有人一样。他进来，坐下来，把拇指插进背心口袋里，对她微笑。

“它是什么？” 他问。

“我们正在为学校图书馆收集资料，我们已打电话请求您捐款，”她回答道。

“我为什么要为你们学校的图书馆捐款？”坎贝尔先生问道。

这对我们来说是一个装腔作势的事情。确实，他为什么要这么做？但《故事女孩》却完全可以胜任。她倾身向前，语气、眼神和微笑中流露出一种难以形容的魔力，她说道：

“因为有一位女士问你。”

坎贝尔先生咯咯地笑起来。

“这是最好的理由，”他说。 “但是你看，我亲爱的年轻女士，我是一个老守财奴，脾气暴躁，你可能已经听说过。我讨厌放弃我的钱，即使有充分的理由。我永远不会放弃其中的任何一个，除非我想从支出中获得一些好处。现在，我能从你们的三乘六学校图书馆得到什么好处呢？无论如何都没有。但我会给你一个公平的报价。我听我管家的顽童儿子说，你是个讲故事的“高手”。告诉我一个，此时此地。我将按照你为我提供的招待的比例向你支付报酬。来吧，做你最漂亮的。”

他的语气里带着一丝微妙的嘲讽，让故事女孩顿时鼓起了勇气。她猛地站了起来，身上发生了惊人的变化。她的眼睛闪烁着光芒，燃烧着。她的脸颊上泛起红晕。

“我将告诉你谢尔曼女孩的故事，以及贝蒂谢尔曼如何赢得丈夫，”她说。

我们喘着粗气。故事女孩疯了吗？或者她忘记了贝蒂·谢尔曼是坎贝尔先生自己的曾祖母，而她赢得丈夫的方法并不完全符合少女的传统。

但坎贝尔先生又笑了。

“这是一次出色的测试，”他说。 “如果你能用这个故事逗我开心，你一定是个奇迹。我经常听到它，它对我来说并不比字母表更感兴趣。”

“八十年前的一个寒冷的冬日，”讲故事的女孩没有再说话，开始说道，“唐纳德·弗雷泽坐在他的新房子的窗边，拉着小提琴为伴，眺望着门前白色冰冻的海湾。 。天气寒冷刺骨，暴风雨正在酝酿。但是，无论有没有暴风雨，唐纳德都打算在那天晚上越过海湾去见南希·谢尔曼。当他演奏“安妮·劳里”时，他想到了她，因为南希比歌曲中的女士更美丽。 “她的脸在阳光照耀下是最美丽的，”唐纳德哼道——哦，他也这么认为！他不知道南希是否关心他。他有很多竞争对手。但他知道，如果她不成为他新房子的女主人，其他人就永远不会成为他的女主人。于是那天下午，他坐在那里，一边用小提琴演奏着甜美的老歌，一边梦见了她。

“当他玩的时候，一辆雪橇开到了门口，尼尔·坎贝尔进来了。唐纳德看到他并不太高兴，因为他怀疑他要去哪里。尼尔·坎贝尔是高地苏格兰人，住在伯威克，他也在向南希·谢尔曼求爱。更糟糕的是，南希的父亲偏爱他，因为他比唐纳德·弗雷泽更有钱。但唐纳德并不打算表现出他所想的一切——苏格兰人从来不会这样做——他假装很高兴见到尼尔，并对他表示衷心的欢迎。

“尼尔在熊熊的炉火旁坐下，看上去对自己很满意。从伯威克到海湾海岸有十英里，去中途宿舍就可以了。然后唐纳德拿出了威士忌。你知道，八十年前他们总是这样做。如果你是一位女士，你可以给客人奉上一盘茶；但如果你是一个男人，却不让他们尝尝威士忌，人们会认为你要么非常卑鄙，要么非常无知。

“‘你看起来很冷，’唐纳德用他洪亮而热情的声音说道。 “伙计，坐得离火近一些，让你的血管里充满一点温暖。”那天天气很冷。现在告诉我伯威克的消息。珍·麦克莱恩和她的男人和好了吗？桑迪·麦夸里真的要嫁给凯特·弗格森吗？ “现在斜纹比赛了！”当然，有了她的红头发，桑迪不会像失去他的新娘一样。

“尼尔有很多消息要告诉。他喝的威士忌越多，说的就越多。他没有注意到唐纳德拿的东西并不多。尼尔滔滔不绝地讲着，当然，他很快就开始讲一些不讲更明智的事情。最后他告诉唐纳德，他当天晚上就要越过海湾向南希·谢尔曼求婚。如果她想要他，那么唐纳德和所有人都应该看到一场真正的婚礼。

“哦，唐纳德有没有大吃一惊！这超出了他的预期。尼尔向南希求婚的时间并不长，而唐纳德也没想到他会这么快就向她求婚。

“起初唐纳德不知道该怎么办。他内心深处确信，南希喜欢他。她非常害羞和谦虚，但你知道，一个女孩可以让一个男人知道她喜欢他，而不需要特意去做。但唐纳德知道，如果尼尔先求婚，他就有最好的机会。尼尔很富有，谢尔曼一家很穷，老埃利亚斯·谢尔曼在这件事上最有发言权。如果他告诉南希她必须接受尼尔·坎贝尔，她永远不会想到违背他。老埃利亚斯·谢尔曼是一个必须服从的人。但如果南希只是先答应别人，她父亲就不会让她食言。

“对于可怜的唐纳德来说，这不是一个艰难的困境吗？但他是个苏格兰人，你知道，要长期坚持苏格兰人是相当困难的。不久，他的眼中闪烁着光芒，因为他想起爱情和战争中一切都是公平的。所以他对尼尔说，哦，很有说服力，

“‘再吃点，伙计，再吃点。 '特将把你的心留在风的牙齿中。帮助自己。还有更多的东西是从哪里来的。

“尼尔不需要太多说服。他又拿了一些，狡猾地说：

“‘你那天晚上要飞越海湾吗？’

” 唐纳德摇摇头。

“‘我已经想到了，’他承认道，‘但是看起来有点像暴风雨，而我的雪橇正在铁匠那里换鞋履。如果我去的话，它一定是在黑丹的背上，他和我一样喜欢在暴风雪中在冰上慢跑。他自己的炉边是今晚男人最好的地方，坎贝尔。换一种口味吧，伙计，换一种口味。”

尼尔继续‘品尝’，而那个狡猾的唐纳德则坐在那儿，一脸清醒，眼睛却在笑，哄着他。最后尼尔的头向前靠在胸前，睡得很熟。唐纳德站起来，穿上大衣，戴上帽子，走到门口。

“‘伙计，愿你睡得又长又甜，’他轻声笑道，‘至于醒来，‘将在你我之间。’”

“说完，他解开了尼尔的马，爬上尼尔的雪橇，把尼尔的水牛长袍裹在身上。

“‘现在，贝丝，老姑娘，尽你所能，’他说。 “你的速度对你的影响比你想象的还要大。如果坎贝尔醒得太早，黑丹可以给你展示一双干净的高跟鞋，为你的良好开端。继续吧，我的女孩。

布朗·贝丝像鹿一样在冰面上行走，唐纳德一直在想他应该对南希说些什么——更重要的是她会对他说些什么。假设他错了。假设她说“不！”

“‘那时尼尔会嘲笑我的。当然他睡得很好。而且雪很快就要来了。不久海湾上就会出现一个美丽的漩涡。我希望这个小伙子如果开始穿越，不会受到任何伤害。当他醒来时，他会处于如此好的高地脾气，以至于他永远不会停下来思考危险。好吧，贝丝，老姑娘，我们到了。现在，唐纳德·弗雷泽，振作起来，扮演一个男人吧。永远不要因为一个女孩用地球上最美丽的深蓝色眼睛蔑视你而退缩。

“尽管唐纳德的言辞大胆，但当他开车进入谢尔曼院子时，他的心仍在狂跳。南希正在马厩门口挤牛奶，但当她看到唐纳德过来时，她站了起来。哦，她非常美丽！她的头发像一缕金色的丝绸，她的眼睛像暴风雨后阳光照射下的海湾海水一样蔚蓝。唐纳德感到比以往更加紧张。但他知道他必须充分利用这个机会。在尼尔到来之前，他可能再也见不到南希一个人了。他抓住她的手，结结巴巴地说：

“‘楠，姑娘，我爱你。你可能认为这是一个仓促的求爱，但这是一个我可以稍后告诉你的故事。我很清楚我配不上你，但如果真爱能让一个人配得上，那么在我之前就没有人了。你愿意接受我吗，南？

“南希没有说她会拥有他。她只是看了一眼，唐纳德就在雪地里吻了她。

“第二天早上，暴风雨就结束了。唐纳德知道尼尔一定很快就会走上正轨。他不想让谢尔曼家成为争吵的场所，所以他决定在坎贝尔到来之前离开。他说服南希和他一起去另一个定居点拜访一些朋友。当他把尼尔的雪橇拉到门口时，他看到远处海湾上有一个黑点，然后笑了起来。

“‘黑丹进展顺利，但他速度不够快，’他说。

“半小时后，尼尔·坎贝尔冲进谢尔曼的厨房，哦，他多么生气啊！那里除了贝蒂·谢尔曼之外没有人，贝蒂并不害怕他。她从来不惧怕任何人。她非常英俊，有着十月坚果般的棕色头发、黑色的眼睛和深红色的脸颊。她一直爱着尼尔·坎贝尔本人。

“‘早上好，坎贝尔先生，’她摇摇头说道。 “你在国外还早呢。”黑丹也同样如此！我是否错误地认为唐纳德·弗雷泽曾经说过，他最喜欢的马永远不应该得到除了他之外的任何人的支持？但毫无疑问，公平交换并不是抢劫，布朗贝斯在这方面是一匹好母马。”

“‘唐纳德·弗雷泽在哪里？’尼尔挥舞着拳头说道。 “我正在寻找他，我也会找到他。”他在哪儿，贝蒂·谢尔曼？

“‘唐纳德·弗雷泽此时已经足够远了，’贝蒂嘲笑道。 “他是个谨慎的人，在他的沙质茅草屋下还有一些机智。昨晚日落时分，他带着一匹不是他自己的或最近得到的马和雪橇来到这里，他向马厩院子里的楠求婚。如果一个男人在我手上拿着挤奶桶的牛边向我求婚，他会因为自己的痛苦而得到冷酷的回答。但楠的想法不同，昨晚他们一起坐到很晚，这是一个美妙的故事，楠上床睡觉时叫醒了我，讲述了一个爱打架的人在威士忌喝得失去理智的时候泄露了他的秘密的故事，然后当他的对手去追求并赢得他的女儿时，他睡着了。坎贝尔先生，你听过类似的故事吗？

“‘哦，是的，’尼尔激烈地说。 “它在乡村嘲笑我，并讲述唐纳德·弗雷泽将要做的故事，是吗？但当我见到他时，他不会笑。不好了。还会有另一个故事要讲！

“‘现在，不要干涉这个人，’贝蒂喊道。 “这是一种多么好的状态，因为一个漂亮的姑娘更喜欢沙色头发和灰色眼睛，而不是高地的黑色和蓝色！你没有鹪鹩的精神，尼尔·坎贝尔。如果我是你，我会让唐纳德·弗雷泽知道，我可以像所有低地人一样迅速地追求并赢得一个女孩；我会的！有很多女孩会很乐意对你的要求说“是”。这里站着一个！为什么不嫁给我，尼尔·坎贝尔？人们说我和南一样漂亮——我可以像南爱她的唐纳德一样爱你——哎，而且好十倍！

“你认为坎贝尔做了什么？哎呀，这正是他应该做的事。他当场就相信了贝蒂的话。不久之后举行了一场双重婚礼。据说尼尔和贝蒂是世界上最幸福的夫妇——甚至比唐纳德和南希还要幸福。所以一切都很好，因为结局很好！”

故事女孩行屈膝礼，直到她的丝绸裙子扫过地板。然后她一屁股坐在椅子上，看着坎贝尔先生，脸红了，得意洋洋，勇敢无畏。

这个故事对我们来说已经很老了。它曾经发表在夏洛特敦的一份报纸上，我们在奥利维亚姨妈的剪贴簿上读过，故事女孩就是在那里学到的。但我们听得入迷了。我已经按照她的说法写下了这个故事的原话；但我永远无法再现她注入其中的魅力、色彩和精神。它为我们而活。唐纳德和尼尔、南希和贝蒂和我们一起在那个房间里。我们看到他们脸上闪烁的表情，听到他们的声音，或愤怒或温柔，或嘲笑或快乐，用低地和高地口音。我们在贝蒂·舍曼大胆的演讲中体会到了所有的卖弄风情、情感、挑衅和狡猾。我们甚至忘记了坎贝尔先生。

那名绅士默默地掏出钱包，取出一张纸条，郑重其事地递给了故事女孩。

“给你五美元，”他说，“你的故事非常值得。你是一个奇迹。有一天你会让世界意识到这一点。我去过一些地方，听到了一些好消息，但我从来没有比我在摇篮里听到的那个陈腐的老故事更喜欢任何东西。现在，你能帮我一个忙吗？”

“当然，”故事女孩高兴地说。

“给我背一下乘法表，”坎贝尔先生说。

我们凝视着。坎贝尔先生可能会被称为古怪。他到底要背乘法口诀表干什么？就连故事女孩也感到惊讶。但她很快就开始了，从两次一开始，一直到十二次十二。她简单地重复了一遍，但声音却随着语气逐渐变得疲倦而变化。我们从来没有想到九九乘法表里有这么多东西。正如她所宣布的那样，三乘三等于九是极其荒谬的，五乘六几乎让人热泪盈眶，八乘七是听过的最悲惨和可怕的事情，而十二乘十二则像号角一样响了起来。走向胜利。

坎贝尔先生满意地点点头。

“我以为你能做到，”他说。 “有一天，我在一本书中发现了这样的说法。 “她的声音会让乘法表变得迷人！”当我听到你的声音时我就想到了。以前我不相信，但现在我相信了。”

然后他就放我们走了。

“你看，”我们回家时故事女孩说，“你永远不需要害怕别人。”

“但我们并不都是故事女孩，”塞西莉说。

那天晚上，我们听到费莉西蒂在他们的房间里和塞西莉说话。

“先生。除了故事女孩之外，坎贝尔从未注意到我们中的任何一个人，”她说，“但如果我像她一样穿上我最好的衣服，也许她就不会吸引所有的注意力。

“你认为你能做到贝蒂·谢尔曼所做的事情吗？”塞西莉心不在焉地问道。

“不;但我相信故事女孩可以。”费莉西蒂颇为不耐烦地回答道。

故事女孩六月去夏洛特敦待了一个星期，看望路易莎姨妈。没有她，生活显得毫无色彩，就连费莉西蒂也承认很孤独。但在她离开三天后，菲利克斯在放学回家的路上告诉了我们一些事情，这立即给生活带来了一些乐趣。

“你怎么认为？”他用非常严肃但又兴奋的语气说道。 “杰里·考恩今天下午课间休息时告诉我，他看到了一张上帝的照片——他把它放在家里一本古老的、红色覆盖的世界历史中，而且经常看它。”

杰里·考恩应该经常看到这样的照片！正如菲利克斯所希望的那样，我们给我们留下了深刻的印象。

“他有说那是什么样的吗？”彼得问道。

“不——只是那是一张上帝在伊甸园里行走的照片。”

“哦，”费莉西蒂低声说道——我们都低声谈论这个话题，因为，出于本能和训练，我们怀着崇敬的心情思考和说出这个伟大的名字——“哦，杰里·考恩会把它带到学校让我们看看？”

“他一告诉我，我就问了他，”菲利克斯说。 “他说他可以，但他不能保证，因为他必须问他的妈妈是否可以把这本书带到学校。如果她允许的话，他明天就会把它带来。”

“哦，我几乎不敢看它，”萨拉·雷颤抖着说道。

我想我们都在某种程度上分享了她的恐惧。尽管如此，第二天我们还是怀着好奇心去了学校。我们很失望。可能是夜晚给杰里·考恩带来了建议。或者也许是他母亲让他这么做的。无论如何，他向我们宣布他不能把这本红皮历史书带到学校，但如果我们想直接买下这幅画，他会把它从书中撕下来，以五十美分的价格卖给我们。

那天晚上我们在果园里举行了严肃的秘密会议讨论了这件事。我们都相当缺乏现金，因为我们把大部分闲钱都捐给了学校图书馆基金。但普遍的共识是，无论涉及多少金钱牺牲，我们都必须了解情况。如果我们每人能捐出七美分，我们就能得到这个数额。彼得只能给出四个，但丹给出了十一个，这就说明了问题。

“对于任何其他照片来说，五十美分都相当昂贵，但这当然不同，”丹说。

“你知道，里面还放了一张伊甸园的照片，”费利西蒂补充道。

“想卖上帝的照片，”塞西莉用震惊而敬畏的语气说道。

“除了考恩之外没有人会这么做，这是事实，”丹说。

“当我们得到它时，我们会将其保存在家庭圣经中，”费利西蒂说。 “那是唯一合适的地方。”

“哦，我想知道那会是什么样子，”塞西莉喘息道。

我们都想知道。第二天在学校，我们同意了杰里·考恩的条件，杰里答应第二天下午把照片带到亚历克叔叔家。

星期六早上我们都非常兴奋。令我们沮丧的是，晚餐前开始下雨了。

“如果杰瑞今天因为下雨而没有带来照片怎么办？”我建议。

“永远不要害怕，”费莉西蒂坚决地回答。 “只要 50 美分，考恩就能完成任何事情。”

晚饭后，我们大家没有任何口头决定，就洗脸梳头。女孩们穿上了她们第二好的衣服，我们男孩则穿上了白领。我们都有一种无以言表的感觉，我们必须尽我们所能向那幅画致敬。费莉西蒂和丹因为什么事情发生了小争执，但听到塞西莉严厉地说，立刻就停了下来：

“今天当你要看上帝的照片时，你怎么敢吵架？”

由于下雨，我们无法在果园聚会，我们本打算在那里与杰瑞处理生意。我们不希望我们的大人在我们的伟大时刻在场，所以我们来到了云杉林中谷仓的阁楼，从窗户里我们可以看到主干道，并向杰瑞致敬。莎拉·雷加入了我们，脸色苍白，紧张，看来她和母亲对于冒雨上山有不同意见。

“我担心我违背了妈妈的意愿，这是非常错误的，”她痛苦地说，“但我等不及了。我也想和你一样尽快看到这张照片。”

我们在窗边等待、观看。山谷里雾气缭绕，雨点从云杉树顶上斜斜地落下来。但当我们等待的时候，乌云散去，太阳闪闪发光。云杉树枝上的水滴像钻石一样闪闪发光。

“我不相信杰瑞会来。”塞西莉绝望地说。 “我想他的母亲肯定认为卖掉这样一幅画是一件可怕的事情。”

“他现在就在那里！”丹喊道，兴奋地在窗外挥手。

“他提着一个鱼篮，”费莉西蒂说。 “你肯定不会认为他会把那张照片放在鱼篮子里带来！”

杰里把它放在鱼篮里带来了，不久后他登上粮仓楼梯时就看到了这一点。它被折叠在一个报纸包里，放在装满篮子的干鲱鱼上面。我们付给他钱，但直到他走后我们才打开包裹。

“塞西莉。”费莉西蒂低声说道。 “你是我们当中最好的。你打开包裹。”

“哦，我并不比你们其他人好，”塞西莉喘息道，“但如果你愿意的话，我可以打开它。”

塞西莉用颤抖的手指打开了包裹。我们站在那里，几乎没有呼吸。她展开并举起它。我们看到了。

萨拉突然哭了起来。

“噢，噢，噢，上帝是这样的吗？”她嚎啕大哭。

菲利克斯和我没有说话。失望，以及更糟糕的事情，结束了我们的演讲。上帝看起来像那样吗——就像那个严厉、愤怒地皱着眉头的老人，头发和胡须都像塞西莉手中的木刻一样飘扬。

“我想他一定会这样，因为那是他的照片，”丹痛苦地说。

“他看起来很生气，”彼得简单地说。

“哦，我希望我们从来没有见过它，”塞西莉喊道。

我们都希望如此——但已经太晚了。我们的好奇心带领我们进入了一些至圣所，不被人眼所亵渎，这就是对我们的惩罚。

“我一直有一种感觉，”萨拉哭泣着，“购买或观看上帝的照片是不对的。”

当我们可怜兮兮地站在那里时，我们听到下面有飞扬的脚步声和一个愉快的声音喊道：

“孩子们，你们在哪里？”

故事少女回来了！在任何其他时刻，我们都会欣喜若狂地冲过去迎接她。但现在我们已经崩溃了，痛苦不堪，无法动弹。

“你们到底有什么事吗？”出现在楼梯顶上的故事女孩问道。 “莎拉哭什么？你那里有什么？”

“这是上帝的照片，”塞西莉带着抽泣的声音说道，“哦，它是如此可怕和丑陋。看！”

故事女孩看着。她的脸上浮现出轻蔑的表情。

“你肯定不相信上帝是这个样子的。”她不耐烦地说，漂亮的眼睛里闪烁着光芒。 “他不——他不能。他很棒又美丽。我对你感到惊讶。那只不过是一个脾气暴躁的老人的照片。”

我们心中燃起了希望，尽管我们并不完全相信。

“我不知道，”丹疑惑地说。 “图片下面写着‘上帝在伊甸园’。”它是打印出来的。”

“嗯，我想这就是画它的人所认为的上帝的样子。”故事女孩漫不经心地回答道。 “但他不可能比你知道得更多。他从来没有见过他。”

“你这么说很好，”费莉西蒂说，“但你也不知道。我希望我能相信那不像上帝——但我不知道该相信什么。”

“好吧，如果你不相信我，我想你会相信部长的。”故事女孩说。 “你去问问他吧。他现在就在屋子里。他开着马车来接我们。”

在其他时候，我们绝不敢向部长询问任何事情。但绝望的情况需要绝望的措施。我们抽签决定谁应该去提出要求，最后抽签落到了菲利克斯身上。

“最好等马伍德先生离开后，在小巷里抓住他。”故事女孩建议道。 “家里会有很多大人在你身边。”

菲利克斯采纳了她的建议。马伍德先生正沿着小巷和蔼地走着，遇到了一个肥胖的小男孩，他脸色苍白，但眼神坚毅。

我们其余的人留在后台，但在听得见的范围内。

“嗯，菲利克斯，那是什么？”马伍德先生和蔼地问道。

“请问先生，上帝真的是这样的吗？”菲利克斯递出照片问道。 “我们希望他不会——但我们想知道真相，这就是我打扰你的原因。请原谅我们并告诉我。”

部长看着照片。他温柔的蓝眼睛里流露出严厉的表情，他几乎皱起了眉头。

“你从哪里得到那东西？”他问。

事物！我们开始呼吸顺畅了。

“我们从杰里·考恩那里买的。他在一本红色的世界历史中找到了它。它说这是上帝的照片，”菲利克斯说。

“根本不是这样的，”马伍德先生愤怒地说。 “根本不存在上帝的画像，菲利克斯。没有人知道他长什么样——没有人可以知道。我们甚至不应该去想他的样子。但是，菲利克斯，你可以确信上帝比我们所能想象的更加美丽、更加慈爱、更加温柔、更加仁慈。永远不要相信任何其他事情，我的孩子。至于这个——这个亵渎——拿走它并烧掉它。”

我们不知道亵渎是什么意思，但我们知道马伍德先生宣称这幅画不像上帝。这对我们来说就足够了。我们感觉好像卸下了心中的沉重负担。

“我简直不敢相信故事女孩，但部长当然知道，”丹高兴地说。

“我们因此损失了五十美分，”费莉西蒂郁闷地说。

我们失去了比五十美分更有价值的东西，尽管我们当时并没有意识到这一点。牧师的话使我们不再相信上帝就像那幅画一样。但在比心灵更深刻、更持久的事物上，却留下了永远无法抹去的印象。恶作剧已经完成了。从那天起，一想到或提到上帝，我们就会不由自主地想起一位严厉、愤怒的老人。这就是我们为放纵好奇心而付出的代价，我们每个人内心深处都像萨拉·雷一样，觉得不应该满足这种好奇心。

“先生。马伍德让我把它烧掉，”菲利克斯说。

“这样做似乎不太恭敬，”塞西莉说。 “即使这不是上帝的照片，上面也有他的名字。”

“把它埋了，”故事女孩说。

喝完茶后，我们确实把它埋在了云杉林的深处。然后我们走进果园。故事女孩再次回来真是太好了。她的头发上缠绕着坎特伯雷钟声，看起来就像是韵律、故事和梦想的化身。

“坎特伯雷钟声对于一种花来说是一个可爱的名字，不是吗？”她说。 “它让你想起大教堂和钟声，不是吗？我们去史蒂芬叔叔步道，坐在大树的树枝上吧。草地太湿了，我知道一个故事——一个真实的故事，是关于我在镇上路易莎阿姨家看到的一位老太太的。这是一位可爱的老太太，有着可爱的银色卷发。”

雨后，在温暖的西风中，空气中似乎弥漫着各种气味——冷杉香脂的味道，薄荷的香料，蕨类植物的野木味，沐浴在阳光下的青草的芳香——随之而来的是一种野性的气息。来自远山牧场的甜蜜。

斯蒂芬叔叔步道的草地上散落着一朵朵淡色的空中花朵，我们无法发现它们的名字。似乎没有人了解他们的任何事情。当金的曾祖父买​​下这个地方时，他们就在那里。我从未在其他地方见过它们，也从未在任何花卉目录中找到过它们的描述。我们称她们为“白人女士”。故事女孩给了他们这个名字。她说，它们看起来就像是受过很多苦、非常有耐心的好女人的灵魂。它们非常精致，带有一种奇怪的、淡淡的、芳香的香味，只有在很远的地方才能闻到，如果你弯下腰去，它们就会消失。它们被拔除后不久就褪色了；尽管陌生人非常钦佩它们，经常带走它们的根和种子，但它们永远无法被哄骗到别处生长。

“我的故事是关于邓巴夫人和范妮号船长的，”故事女孩舒适地坐在一根树枝上，棕色的头靠在粗糙的树干上。 “这既悲伤又美丽——而且是真实的。我确实喜欢讲我知道真实发生过的故事。邓巴夫人住在镇上路易莎阿姨的隔壁。她很甜美。你不会认为她的人生经历过一场悲剧，但她确实有。路易莎姨妈给我讲了这个故事。这一切都发生在很久很久以前。在我看来，这样有趣的事情很久以前就发生过。现在它们似乎从未发生过。那是在 49 年，当时人们正涌向加利福尼亚州的金矿。路易莎阿姨说，这就像发烧一样。人们就在岛上拿走了它；许多年轻人决定去加利福尼亚。

“现在去加州很容易；但当时情况就完全不同了。那时没有像现在那样横穿这片土地的铁路，如果你想去加利福尼亚州，你必须乘坐帆船，一路绕过合恩角。这是一段漫长而危险的旅程；有时需要六个月以上的时间。当你到达那里时，除非按照同样的计划，否则你没有办法再给家里发消息。可能要过一年多，你家里的人才会听到有关你的消息，想象一下他们的感受是什么！

“但是这些年轻人并没有想到这些事情；他们没有想到这些。”他们被金色的愿景所引导。他们做好了一切安排，并包租了双桅船 舳 带他们去加利福尼亚。

“船长 舳 是我故事的英雄。他的名字叫艾伦·邓巴，年轻又英俊。你知道，英雄总是存在的，但路易莎姨妈说他确实是英雄。他爱上了——疯狂地爱上了——玛格丽特·格兰特。玛格丽特美丽如梦，有着温柔的蓝眼睛和云朵般的金色头发。她爱艾伦·邓巴，就像他爱她一样。但她的父母强烈反对他，他们禁止玛格丽特见到他或与他说话。作为一个男人，他们并没有反对他，但他们不想让她抛弃一个水手。

“好吧，当艾伦·邓巴知道他必须去加利福尼亚时 舳 他很绝望。他觉得他永远不能走这么远这么久而把他的玛格丽特抛在身后。玛格丽特觉得她永远不能放开他。我完全了解她的感受。”

“你怎么知道？”彼得突然打断道。 “你还没有到找情人的年龄。你怎么知道？

故事女孩皱着眉头看着彼得。她不喜欢在讲故事时被打断。

“这些不是人们知道的事情，”她尊严地说。 “人们对他们有感觉。”

彼得心碎但不相信，平静下来，故事女孩继续说下去。

“最后，玛格丽特和艾伦私奔了，他们在夏洛特敦结婚了。艾伦打算带他的妻子一起去加利福尼亚州 舳。如果这对男人来说是一段艰难的旅程，那么对女人来说就更困难了，但玛格丽特为了艾伦愿意做任何事。他们度过了三天——只有三天——的幸福时光，然后打击就降临了。机组人员和乘客 舳 拒绝让邓巴船长带着他的妻子一起去。他们告诉他必须把她抛在身后。而他所有的祈祷都没有效果。他们说他站在甲板上 舳 他泪流满面地向这些人恳求。但他们不肯屈服，他不得不把玛格丽特抛在后面。噢，这是多么令人难忘的离别啊！”

故事女孩的声音里充满了心碎，我们的眼里含着泪水。在那里，在斯蒂芬叔叔步道的绿色凉亭里，我们为多年以来一直压抑的离别的悲伤而哭泣。

“当一切结束后，玛格丽特的父母原谅了她，她回家等待——等待。哦，只是等待，而不做其他事情，真是太可怕了。玛格丽特等了将近一年。在她看来，这时间一定是多么漫长啊！最后收到了一封信——但不是艾伦写的。艾伦死了。他在加利福尼亚去世并被埋葬在那里。当玛格丽特一直在想念他、渴望他、为他祈祷时，他却躺在他孤独、遥远的坟墓里。”

塞西莉跳了起来，抽泣着浑身发抖。

“哦，别——别继续，”她恳求道。 “我再也无法忍受了。”

“没有了，”故事女孩说。 “事情就这样结束了——玛格丽特的一切都结束了。它没有杀死她，但她的心死了。”

“我只是希望能抓住那些不让船长带走他妻子的家伙。”彼得粗暴地说。

“嗯，这话说得很糟糕，”费莉西蒂擦着眼睛说道。 “但那是很久以前的事了，我们现在为此哭泣没有任何好处。我们去吃点东西吧。今天早上我做了一些漂亮的小大黄馅饼。”

我们去了。尽管有新的失望和旧的心碎，我们仍然有胃口。费莉西蒂确实做了美味的大黄馅饼！

当我们向图书馆基金交出藏书时，彼得拥有最大的一笔——三美元。费莉西蒂以两分半的成绩获得第二名。这只是因为母鸡下蛋得很好。

“如果你得付钱给父亲你喂那些母鸡的所有额外的小麦，费丽西蒂小姐，你就不会有那么多了，”丹恶毒地说。

“我没有，”费莉西蒂愤怒地说。 “看看奥利维亚姨妈的母鸡也下蛋了，她像平常一样亲自喂它们。”

“没关系，”塞西莉说，“我们都有东西可以奉献。如果你像可怜的萨拉·雷一样，没能收集到任何东西，你可能会感觉很糟糕。”

但萨拉·雷有一些东西可以给予。她喝完茶就上山了，容光焕发。当莎拉·雷微笑时——她并没有浪费她的微笑——她带着一种哀伤、歉意的方式相当漂亮。一两个酒窝映入眼帘，她的牙齿非常漂亮——又小又白，就像传统的一排珍珠。

“哦，看看吧，”她说。 “这是三美元——我要把它全部捐给图书馆基金。今天我收到温尼伯亚瑟叔叔的一封信，他寄给我三美元。他说我可以用任何我喜欢的方式使用它，所以妈妈不能拒绝让我把它捐给基金。她认为这是一种可怕的浪费，但她总是按照亚瑟叔叔的话去做。哦，我曾如此努力地祈祷，希望能以某种方式得到一些钱，现在它来了。看看祈祷有什么作用！”

我非常担心我们没有像我们应该做的那样无私地为萨拉的好运而高兴。我们通过辛勤的汗水，或者通过同样令人不快的“乞讨”方式，赢得了我们的贡献。莎拉的奇迹就像从天而降一样，就像你能想象到的奇迹一样。

“你知道，她为此祈祷，”莎拉回家后菲利克斯说道。

“这种赚钱方式太容易了。”彼得不满地抱怨道。 “如果我们其他人只是坐下来，什么都不做，只是祈祷，你认为我们能得到多少钱？这对我来说似乎不公平。”

“哦，好吧，莎拉就不一样了，”丹说。 “我们可以赚钱，而她却不能。你看？但请到果园来吧。故事女孩今天收到了一封来自她父亲的信，她要读给我们听。”

我们很快就去了。故事女孩父亲的来信总是一件大事；听她读这本书几乎和听她讲故事一样好。

在来卡莱尔之前，布莱尔·斯坦利叔叔对我们来说只是一个名字。现在他是一个有个性的人了。他写给故事女孩的信、他寄给她的照片和草图、她对他的崇拜和频繁提及，所有这些结合在一起，使他对我们来说非常真实。

当时我们感到，直到后来我们才明白，我们成年的亲戚并不完全钦佩或赞同布莱尔叔叔。他属于与他们不同的世界。他们从来没有非常熟悉过他，也不了解他。我现在意识到布莱尔叔叔有点波西米亚人——一种值得尊敬的流浪汉。如果他是一个穷人，他可能会成为一个更成功的艺术家。但他自己也有一小笔财产，而且缺乏必要的刺激，也没有令人不安的野心，他只不过是一个聪明的业余爱好者。有时他会画一幅画来展示他的能力。但除此之外，他很满足地环游世界，轻松而满足。我们知道，故事女孩被认为在外表和气质上与他非常相似，但她有更多的热情、强度和意志力——她从金和沃德那里继承下来。作为一个涉足者，她永远不会满足。无论她未来的职业生涯是什么，她都会倾尽全力。

但布莱尔叔叔至少可以把一件事做得非常出色。他会写信。这样的信！相比之下，我和菲利克斯却暗自为父亲的书信感到羞愧。父亲能说得很好，但正如菲利克斯所说，他写不出一分钱的东西。自从他到达里约热内卢以来，我们收到的他写的信都只是潦草的字迹，告诉我们要做个好孩子，不要麻烦珍妮特阿姨，顺便补充说他很好，很孤独。菲利克斯和我总是很高兴收到他的信，但我们从来没有在果园里向一群钦佩的人大声朗读它们。

布莱尔叔叔正在瑞士过暑假。故事女孩在白皙、柔弱的白衣女士中间给我们读了这封信，西风时而叹息，时而猛烈，然后像蓟花一样轻柔地拂过我们的脸庞。充满了群山环抱的湖泊、紫色的小木屋和“故事古老的雪峰”的魅力。我们登上了勃朗峰，看到了少女峰高耸入云端，并在博尼瓦尔监狱阴暗的柱子间行走。最后，故事女孩给我们讲了西庸囚徒的故事，用的是拜伦的语言，但声音却完全是她自己的。

“去欧洲一定很棒。”塞西莉憧憬地叹息道。

“有一天我也要去。”故事女孩轻描淡写地说。

我们带着一丝难以置信的敬畏看着她。对我们来说，那些年里的欧洲几乎就像月球一样遥远而遥不可及。很难相信一个美国人会去那里。但朱莉娅姨妈已经走了——她是在卡莱尔的这个农场里长大的。所以故事女孩也有可能会去。

“你会在那儿干嘛？”彼得实用地问道。

“我要学会如何给全世界的人讲故事。”故事女孩梦幻般地说。

这是一个美丽的、金棕色的夜晚。果园和远处的农田都充满了红宝石般的光芒和亲吻的影子。东边，尴尬男子的房子上空，骄傲公主的嫁衣飘过天空，很快就变成了玫瑰色，仿佛沾满了她的心血。我们坐在那里聊天，直到第一颗星星在山毛榉山上空照亮了白色的锥体。

然后我想起我忘了服用魔法种子，我赶紧去服用，尽管我开始对它失去信心。从大厅门无情的见证来看，我一点也没有长大。

我在昏暗的房间里从行李箱里拿出一盒种子，吞下了那口法令。当我这么做的时候，丹的声音在我身后响起。

“贝弗利·金，你手里有什么？”

我急忙把盒子塞进行李箱，面对丹。

“不关你的事。”我挑衅地说。

“是的，就是这样。”丹太认真了，不会对我直言不讳的言论感到不满。 “看这里，贝夫，那是魔法种子吗？你是从比利·罗宾逊那里得到的吗？”

丹和我对视一眼，眼中浮现出疑惑。

“你对比利·罗宾逊和他的魔法种子了解多少？”我要求道。

“只是这个。我从他那里买了一盒，是为了——为了——一些东西。他说他不会把任何东西卖给其他人。他有卖给你吗？”

“是的，他做到了，”我厌恶地说——因为我开始明白比利和他的魔法种子是彻头彻尾的骗子。

“做什么的？你的嘴大小合适。”丹说。

“嘴？跟我的嘴没关系！他说这会让我长高。但它却没有——一英寸都没有！我不明白你想要它做什么！你已经够高了。”

“我是为了嘴才吃的，”丹带着羞愧的笑容说道。 “学校里的女孩子都这么笑。凯特·马尔 (Kate Marr) 表示，这就像馅饼上的一道口子。比利说种子肯定会让它缩小。”

嗯，就是这样！比利欺骗了我们俩。我们并不是唯一的受害者。我们并没有立即查明整个故事。事实上，在夏天快结束的时候，不知羞耻的比利·罗宾逊的罪恶以这样或那样的方式全部暴露在我们面前。但我将在本章中预见到连续的关系。最终看来，卡莱尔学校的每个学生都在庄严的保密承诺下购买了魔法种子。菲利克斯幸福地相信这会让他变瘦。塞西莉的头发将变成自然卷曲，萨拉·雷将不再害怕佩格·鲍文。这是为了让费莉西蒂像故事女孩一样聪明，是为了让故事女孩像费莉西蒂一样擅长做饭。彼得购买魔法种子的目的比其他人保密的时间更长。最后——那是我们预计的审判日的前一天晚上——他向我承认，他这样做是为了让费莉西蒂喜欢他。精明的比利确实巧妙地利用了我们各自的弱点。

我们发现这颗神奇的种子只不过是香菜，这种种子在比利·罗宾逊位于马克代尔的叔叔家中大量生长，这给我们带来了最强烈的羞辱。佩格·鲍文与此事无关。

好吧，我们都被严重欺骗了。但我们并没有在国外大肆宣扬我们的错误。我们甚至没有向比利追究责任。我们认为在这种情况下，少说是最快解决的办法。我们确实走得很轻，以免大人们，尤其是那个可怕的罗杰叔叔听到。

“我们早该知道不要相信比利·罗宾逊，”费利西蒂在一天晚上总结案情时说道，当时一切都已公之于众。 “毕竟，除了咕噜声之外，你还能指望从猪身上得到什么呢？”

我们毫不惊讶地发现，比利·罗宾逊对图书馆基金的捐款是所有学者中缴纳的最大的。塞西莉说她并不嫉妒他的良心。但恐怕她是用自己的良心来衡量他的。我非常怀疑比利是否给他带来了麻烦。

“我讨厌长大的想法，”故事女孩若有所思地说，“因为那时我永远不能赤脚，没有人会看到我有多么美丽的脚。”

她坐在罗杰叔叔的大谷仓里，七月的阳光下，坐在开着的干草棚窗户的窗台上。她的印花裙下面的光脚很漂亮。他们身材修长，身材匀称，光滑如缎，脚背拱起，脚趾最精致，指甲像粉红色的贝壳。

我们都在干草棚里。故事女孩给我们讲了一个故事

“那些古老的、不幸的、遥远的事情，
还有很久以前的战斗。”

费莉西蒂和塞西莉蜷缩在角落里，我们男孩懒洋洋地躺在芳香四溢、阳光温暖的堆上。那天早上，我们已经为罗杰叔叔把干草“存放”在阁楼里，所以我们觉得我们已经赢得了躺在芳香四溢的沙发上的权利。干草棚是个美妙的地方，有足够的阴影和柔和、不确定的噪音，给人一种令人愉快的神秘感。燕子在我们头顶的巢穴里飞进飞出，每当阳光从缝隙中射进来，空气中就弥漫着金色的灰尘。阁楼外面是一片广阔的、阳光灿烂的海湾，蓝天和柔和的空气，其中漂浮着蓬松的云朵，还有枫树和云杉的通风树顶。

当然，帕特和我们在一起，偷偷摸摸地徘徊，或者疯狂地、徒劳地向燕子跳跃。干草棚里的猫是事物永恒适宜性的一个美丽例子。那时我们还没有听说过这种健身，但我们都觉得帕迪在干草棚里有自己的位置。

“我认为谈论你自己拥有的任何美丽都是很虚荣的，”费利西蒂说。

“我一点也不虚荣。”故事女孩满口实话地说。 “了解自己的优点并不是虚荣。如果你不这样做，那就太愚蠢了。当你对它们感到骄傲时，这只是虚荣心。我一点也不漂亮。我唯一的优点是我的头发、眼睛和脚。所以我认为其中一个大部分时间都必须被掩盖，这确实意味着。当天气暖和到可以赤脚时我总是很高兴。但是，等我长大了，他们就得一直盖着被子了。这很卑鄙。”

“今晚去看幻彩灯会，得把鞋子和袜子穿上。”费莉西蒂满意的说道。

“我不知道。我正在考虑赤脚去。”

“哦，你不会的！莎拉·斯坦利，你不是认真的！”费莉西蒂惊呼道，她的蓝眼睛里充满了恐惧。

故事女孩向菲利克斯和我旁边的那一侧脸眨了眨眼，但女孩们旁边的那一侧却没有任何肌肉变化。她非常喜欢时不时地从费莉西蒂那里“升职”。

“确实，只要我下定决心，我就会这么做。为什么不？为什么不赤脚——如果它们是干净的——以及赤手和脸呢？”

“哦，你不会的！这将是一种耻辱！”可怜的费莉西蒂非常痛苦地说道。

“整个六月我们都赤脚去学校，”那个邪恶的故事女孩辩解道。 “白天光脚去校舍和晚上光脚去校舍有什么区别？”

“哦，有很大的不同。我无法简单地解释这一点，但每个人都知道这是有区别的。你自己知道。哦，请不要做这样的事，萨拉。”

“好吧，我不会，只是为了满足你的要求，”故事女孩说，她在赤脚去参加“公开会议”之前就已经死了。

那天晚上，一位巡回讲师要在校舍里表演幻灯表演，我们都很兴奋。就连我和菲利克斯这样看过很多次的表演也很感兴趣，其他人则相当疯狂。卡莱尔以前从未发生过这样的事情。我们都要去，包括彼得。彼得现在和我们一起去任何地方。他是教堂和主日学校的常客，他的行为无可非议，就好像他是在维尔德维尔种姓中“长大”的。这是故事女孩的骄傲，因为她把所有的功劳都归功于让彼得走上了正确的道路。费莉西蒂听天由命了，尽管彼得最好的裤子上的致命补丁对她来说仍然很碍眼。她宣称她从来没有从唱歌中得到任何好处，因为彼得站起来，每个人都可以看到补丁。詹姆斯·克拉克夫人的座位就在我们后面，她的目光从未离开过——至少费莉西蒂是这么断言的。

但彼得的袜子总是脏兮兮的。自从奥利维亚姨妈听说彼得在他的第一个周日对他们采取了奇特的手段后，她就一直在注意这一点。她还给了彼得一本《圣经》，彼得对这本圣经感到非常自豪，以至于他讨厌使用它，以免弄脏它。

“我想我会把它包起来放在我的盒子里，”他说。 “我家里有一本简姨妈的旧圣经，可以用。我想即使是旧的，它还是一样的，不是吗？”

“哦，是的，”塞西莉向他保证。 “圣经总是一样的。”

“我想也许自简姨妈时代以来他们已经有了一些新的改进，”彼得松了口气说。

“莎拉·雷正沿着小路走来，她在哭，”丹宣布道，他正从阁楼对面的一个节洞里往外看。

“莎拉·雷有一半时间都在哭。”塞西莉不耐烦地说。 “我确信她每个月都会流一夸脱的泪水。有时候你会忍不住哭泣。但我当时就躲了起来。萨拉只是在公共场合哭泣。”

不久之后，爱哭的莎拉也加入了我们，我们发现她流泪的原因是她母亲那天晚上禁止她去看幻灯表演。我们都表达了我们的同情。

“她昨天说你可以走了。”故事女孩愤怒地说。 “她为什么改变主意？”

“因为马克代尔的麻疹，”萨拉抽泣着。 “她说马克代尔到处都是这样的人，展会上肯定会有一些马克代尔人。所以我不去。我从来没有见过神灯——我什么也没见过。”

“我不认为有任何感染麻疹的危险，”费利西蒂说。 “如果有的话我们就不被允许去。”

“我希望我能得麻疹，”萨拉挑衅地说。 “也许那时我对妈妈来说会有些重要。”

“假设塞西莉和你一起去哄你妈妈，”故事女孩建议道。 “也许那时她就会放你走。她喜欢塞西莉。她既不喜欢费莉西蒂，也不喜欢我，所以我们尝试只会让事情变得更糟。”

“妈妈进城去了——爸爸和她今天下午去了——他们要明天才回来。除了朱迪·皮诺和我，家里没人。”

“那么，”故事女孩说，“你为什么不直接去看演出呢？如果你哄朱迪闭嘴，你妈妈永远不会知道。”

“哦，但这是错误的，”费莉西蒂说。 “你不应该让萨拉违背她的母亲。”

现在看来，费莉西蒂这一次无疑是对的。故事女孩的建议是错误的；如果是塞西莉提出抗议，故事女孩大概就会听她的话，不再继续这件事了。但费莉西蒂是那些不幸的人之一，她对错误行为的抗议只会让错误的人在罪恶的道路上走得更远。

故事女孩对费莉西蒂优越的语气感到不满，并开始认真地诱惑莎拉。我们其他人都保持沉默。我们告诉自己，这是萨拉自己的了望台。

“我很想这么做，”萨拉说，“但我买不到好衣服；他们在空房间里，妈妈锁上了门，生怕有人拿走水果蛋糕。除了学校的格子布外，我没有任何衣服可穿。”

“嗯，这又新又漂亮，”讲故事的女孩说。 “我们会借给你一些东西。你可以拥有我的蕾丝领子。这会让格子布变得非常优雅。塞西莉会把她第二好的帽子借给你。”

“但我没有鞋子或袜子。他们也被关起来了。”

“你可以买一双我的，”费莉西蒂说，她可能认为既然萨拉肯定会屈服于诱惑，那么她最好为自己的越轨行为穿上得体的衣服。

萨拉确实屈服了。当故事女孩的声音发出恳求的时候，就算你愿意，也很难抗拒它的诱惑。那天晚上，当我们出发去校舍时，莎拉·雷就在我们中间，穿着借来的羽毛。

“假设她感染了麻疹呢？”菲丽西蒂在一旁说道。

“我不相信会有来自马克代尔的人。讲师下周要去马克代尔。他们会等的。”故事女孩轻描淡写地说。

那是一个凉爽、露水的夜晚，我们兴高采烈地走下长长的红色山坡。长满山毛榉和云杉的山谷上空映照着落日的余辉——乳黄色的色调，与其说是红色，倒不如说是梦幻般的红色，一轮新月低垂在其中。空气中弥漫着割过的干草场的芳香，那里大片的三叶草沐浴在阳光下。篱笆旁长满了粉红色的野玫瑰，路边长满了星星点点的毛茛花。

我们这些良心没有问题的人很享受步行到山谷里粉刷成白色的小校舍。费莉西蒂和塞西莉对所有男人都没有冒犯之意。故事少女身着赤丝，笔直行走，宛如化身的火焰。她那双漂亮的脚隐藏在棕褐色、系扣子的巴黎靴子里，这让卡莱尔的每个女学生都暗暗羡慕。

但萨拉·雷并不高兴。她的脸色忧郁得让故事女孩对她失去了耐心。故事女孩自己也不太放心。也许她自己的良心在困扰着她。但承认她不会。

“现在，莎拉，”她说，“如果你愿意的话，你只要听从我的建议，全心全意地去做这件事。没关系，如果它是坏的。如果你一直希望自己表现出色，从而破坏了你的乐趣，那么调皮是没有用的。你可以事后悔改，但把两者混在一起是没有用的。”

“我不会悔改，”萨拉抗议道。 “我只是害怕妈妈发现。”

“哦！”故事女孩的声音里透着轻蔑。对于悔恨，她有理解和同情；但她不知道对同胞的恐惧。 “朱迪·皮诺不是郑重地向你保证过她不会说出去吗？”

“是的;但也许有人看到我在那里就会向妈妈提起这件事。”

“好吧，既然你这么害怕，那你最好别去。还不算太晚。这是你自己的门，”塞西莉说。

但萨拉无法放弃演出带来的乐趣。于是她继续往前走，这是一个小小的、悲惨的见证，表明违法者的道路从来都不容易，即使这个违法者只是一个十一岁的少女。

幻灯表演非常精彩。观点很好，讲师也很风趣。回家的路上我们互相重复着他的笑话。萨拉原本对展览并不感兴趣，但当展览结束回家时，她似乎感到更加高兴。故事女孩却相反，脸色阴沉。

“那里有马克代尔人，”她向我透露，“威廉森一家住在考恩一家的隔壁，考恩一家患有麻疹。我希望我从来没有怂恿莎拉去——但别告诉费丽西蒂我是这么说的。如果萨拉·雷真的喜欢这个节目，我不会介意。但她没有。我看得出来。所以我做错了，也让她做错了——而且没有什么可以证明的。”

夜晚是芬芳而神秘的。风在溪谷的芦苇丛中吹奏着诡异的、毫无血肉的旋律。天空漆黑，繁星点点，银河在天空上飘扬着闪闪发光的薄雾丝带。

“银河系里有四亿颗恒星，”彼得说道，他的知识比任何雇佣男孩都多，这常常让我们感到惊讶。他记忆力极强，从来不会忘记所听到或读过的任何事情。他经常提到的简姨妈留给他的几本书让他脑子里装满了各种各样的信息，有时让菲利克斯和我怀疑我们是否知道得像彼得一样多。费莉西蒂对他的天文学知识印象深刻，于是她从其他女孩身边退了一步，走在他身边。她以前没有这样做过，因为他赤着脚。受雇的男孩可以赤脚参加公共集会——如果不是在教堂举行的话——并且不会带来什么特别的耻辱。但费莉西蒂不会和赤脚的同伴一起行走。现在天已经黑了，没有人会注意到他的脚。

“我知道一个关于银河系的故事。”故事女孩高兴地说。 “我在城里路易莎姨妈的一本书中读到了这句话，并且把它背了下来。从前，天上有两位大天使，名叫谢拉和祖拉米斯——”

“天使有名字——和人一样吗？”彼得打断道。

“是的当然。他们必须有。如果他们不这样做的话，他们就会变得混乱。”

“当我成为天使时——如果我真的成为天使的话——我的名字还会是彼得吗？”

“不。在那里你会有一个新名字。”塞西莉温柔地说。 “圣经上是这么说的。”

“嗯，我对此很高兴。彼得对于天使来说是一个非常有趣的名字。天使和大天使有什么区别？”

“哦，大天使是那些已经成为天使这么久的天使，他们有时间比新天使成长得更好、更聪明、更美丽，”故事女孩说，她可能是一时冲动才做出这个解释的，只是来安抚彼得。

“天使要多久才能成长为大天使？”追赶彼得。

“哦，我不知道。可能有几百万年。即便如此，我也不认为所有的天使都会这样做。我想，他们中的很多人一定只是普通的天使。”

“做一个平凡的天使我就满足了。”费莉西蒂谦虚地说。

“哦，看这里，如果你要打断并争论所有事情，我们就永远不会讲故事，”菲利克斯说。 “你们都擦干，让故事女孩继续说下去。”

我们都干了，故事女孩还在继续。

“谢拉和祖拉米斯彼此相爱，就像凡人相爱一样，这是全能者的法律所禁止的。由于谢拉和祖拉米斯严重违反了上帝的律法，他们被从上帝面前驱逐到宇宙的尽头。如果他们一起被放逐，那也不算什么惩罚；于是，谢拉被流放到了宇宙一侧的一颗恒星，而祖拉米斯则被送到了宇宙另一侧的一颗恒星；他们之间是一道深不可测的深渊，自以为无法跨越。只有一件事可以跨越它——那就是爱。祖拉米斯对谢拉如此忠诚和渴望，以至于他开始在他的星星上建造一座光桥；谢拉不知道这一点，但对他充满爱和渴望，开始从她的星星上建造一座类似的光之桥。他们用了一万年的时间共同建造了光之桥，最后他们相遇并投入了彼此的怀抱。他们的辛劳、孤独和痛苦都已结束并被遗忘，他们建造的桥梁跨越了流放之星之间的鸿沟。

“现在，当其他天使长看到所发生的事情时，他们带着恐惧和愤怒飞到上帝的白色宝座上，向他呼喊：

“‘看看这些叛逆者做了什么！他们为他们建造了一座横跨宇宙的光之桥，并将你的分离法令置之不理。那么，请伸出你的手臂，摧毁他们的不敬行为吧。

“他们停了下来——整个天堂都安静了。寂静中，传来了全能者的声音。

“‘不，’他说，‘在我的宇宙中，无论真爱所建造的一切，连全能者都无法摧毁。这座桥必须永远矗立。

“然后，”故事女孩仰面朝天，大眼睛里闪烁着星光，总结道，“它静止不动。那座桥就是银河系。”

“多么可爱的故事啊，”莎拉·雷感叹道，她被这个故事的魅力所吸引，暂时忘记了自己的痛苦。

我们其余的人回到了地球，感觉自己一直在天上的万象中徘徊。我们还不够大，无法充分领会这个传说的精彩含义；但我们感受到了它的美丽和吸引力。对我们来说，银河系将不再是彼得那压倒性的太阳花环，而是爱所创造的透明桥梁，被放逐的大天使们在桥上从一颗星穿越到另一颗星。

我们不得不和她一起沿着萨拉·雷的小巷走到她家门口，因为她担心如果她单独去的话，佩格·鲍文会抓住她。然后我和故事女孩一起向山上走去。彼得和费莉西蒂落后了。塞西莉、丹和菲利克斯手拉手走在我们前面，唱着赞美诗。塞西莉的声音非常甜美，我听得很高兴。但故事女孩叹了口气。

“如果萨拉得了麻疹怎么办？”她痛苦地问道。

“每个人都会有得麻疹的时候，”我安慰地说，“而且越年轻越好。”

十天后，一天晚上，奥利维亚姨妈和罗杰叔叔进城，在那里过夜，第二天也是如此。彼得和故事女孩不在期间住在亚历克叔叔家。

日落时分，我们在果园里，听着科菲图亚国王和乞丐女仆的故事——除了正在锄萝卜的彼得和下山去见雷夫人的费莉西蒂之外，我们所有人都在一起。

故事女孩把乞丐女仆扮演得如此生动，又如此美丽，以至于我们丝毫不怀疑国王对她的喜爱。我以前读过这个故事，我认为它是“腐烂的”。我敢肯定，当国王有大量的公主可供选择时，他不会娶一个乞丐女仆。但现在我全明白了。

当费莉西蒂回来时，我们从她的表情中得出结论，她有消息。她确实做到了。

“莎拉病得很厉害，”她遗憾地说，声音中夹杂着一些并非遗憾的东西。 “她感冒了，喉咙痛，而且还在发烧。雷夫人说，如果到早上她还没有好转，她就会派人去看医生。她担心是麻疹。”

费莉西蒂把最后一句话扔给了故事女孩，故事女孩脸色惨白。

“噢，你猜她是在灯笼表演中发现他们的吗？”她痛苦地说。

“她还能在哪里抓到他们呢？”费莉西蒂毫不留情地说道。 “当然，我没有看到她——雷在门口遇见了我，并告诉我不要进来。但是雷太太说，麻疹对雷一家来说总是非常严重——如果他们没有完全死于麻疹，就会使他们失聪或半盲，或者类似的事情。当然，”费莉西蒂补充道，看到故事女孩可怜的眼神中的痛苦，她的心融化了，“太太。雷总是往阴暗面看，这可能不是莎拉得的麻疹。”

但费莉西蒂把她的工作做得太彻底了。故事女孩并没有得到安慰。

“如果我不让萨拉去看那场演出，我愿意付出任何代价，”她说。 “这都是我的错——但惩罚却落在了萨拉身上，这不公平。我现在就去向雷太太坦白整件事；但如果我这么做了，可能会给萨拉带来更多麻烦，所以我不能这么做。今晚我一觉睡不着。”

我不认为她做到了。当她下楼吃早餐时，她看上去脸色苍白，愁容满面。但是，尽管如此，她还是有一种兴奋的感觉。

“我要整天忏悔，因为我哄骗莎拉不服从她的母亲，”她带着克制的胜利宣布。

“忏悔？”我们困惑地嘀咕道。

“是的。我会拒绝自己所有我喜欢的事情，做所有我能想到的我不喜欢的事情，只是为了惩罚自己的邪恶。如果你们中有人想到了我没有想到的事情，请告诉我。我昨晚想好了。如果上帝看到我真的很抱歉，也许萨拉就不会病得那么严重了。”

“无论如何，他都能看到它，而无需你做任何事情，”塞西莉说。

“好吧，我的良心会好受一些。”

“我不相信长老会教徒会忏悔，”费莉西蒂怀疑地说。 “我从来没有听说过有人这样做。”

但我们其他人对故事女孩的想法颇有好感。我们确信她会像做其他事情一样，如画般、彻底地进行忏悔。

“你可以把豌豆放在鞋子里，你知道，”彼得建议道。

“正是这个事情！我从来没想过这点。早餐后我去买一些。除了面包和水之外，我一整天不会吃任何东西——而且不会吃太多！”

我们认为，这确实是一项英勇的举措。坐下来吃珍妮特姨妈的一顿饭，健康状况和胃口都一般，只吃面包和水——这将是一种彻底的忏悔！我们觉得我们永远做不到。但故事女孩做到了。我们对她既敬佩又可怜。但现在我认为她不需要我们怜悯，也不值得我们钦佩。对她来说，苦行僧的食物确实比希米特斯的蜂蜜还要甜。她在不知不觉中扮演着一个角色，品尝着艺术家所有微妙的快乐，这种快乐比任何物质的快乐都要精致得多。

珍妮特姨妈当然注意到了故事女孩的禁欲，并询问她是否生病了。

“不。珍妮特阿姨，我只是在忏悔我犯下的罪过。我不能承认，因为这会给别人带来麻烦。所以我要整天忏悔。你不介意吧？”

那天早上珍妮特姨妈心情很好，所以她只是笑了笑。

“只要你的胡言乱语不过分，就不会。”她宽容地说。

“谢谢。珍妮特阿姨，早餐后你能给我一把硬豌豆吗？我想把它们放在我的鞋子里。”

“没有；”我昨天用了最后的汤。”

“哦！”故事女孩非常失望。 “那我想我就得不用了。新豌豆还不够痛。它们太软了，简直可以被压扁。”

“我告诉你，”彼得说，“我会在金先生的门前人行道上捡起很多小圆石子。它们会和豌豆一样好。”

“你不会做那种事的，”珍妮特姨妈说。 “萨拉不能以这种方式进行忏悔。她的袜子会破洞，脚可能会严重擦伤。”

“如果我拿鞭子抽我光秃秃的肩膀，直到流血，你会怎么说？”故事女孩委屈地问道。

“我不会说什么，”珍妮特阿姨反驳道。 “我只是把你翻到膝盖上，狠狠地打你屁股，萨拉小姐。你会发现这种忏悔就足够了。”

故事女孩气得满脸通红。当你十四岁半的时候，而且还在孩子们面前，对你说了这样的话！说实话，珍妮特阿姨可能很可怕。

那天是假期，没什么可做的；我们很快就可以自由地去寻找果园了。但故事女孩不会来。她坐在厨房最暗、最热的角落里，手里拿着一块旧棉花。

“我今天不玩，”她说，“我也不打算讲任何故事。珍妮特阿姨不让我把小石子放进鞋子里，但我在背上靠近皮肤的地方放了一颗蓟，只要我稍微向后倾斜，它就会粘在我身上。我要在这块棉布上打扣眼。我最讨厌打扣眼，所以我要整天打扣眼。”

“在旧抹布上打扣眼有什么好处？”费莉西蒂问。

“这没什么好处。苦行的美妙之处在于它让你感到不舒服。所以你做什么并不重要，无论它是否有用，只要它是令人讨厌的。哦，我想知道萨拉今天早上怎么样。”

“妈妈今天下午要下去，”费莉西蒂说。 “她说，在我们知道是否是麻疹之前，我们任何人都不能靠近这个地方。”

“我想到了一个伟大的忏悔，”塞西莉急切地说。 “今晚不要去参加传教士聚会。”

故事女孩看起来很可怜​​。

“我自己也这么想过——但我不能呆在家里，塞西莉。这将超出血肉之躯所能承受的范围。我必须听那个传教士讲话。他们说他有一次差点被食人者吃掉。想想看，听完他的演讲后，我还要讲多少新故事！不，我必须走了，但我会告诉你我要做什么。我会穿我的校服和帽子。那将是忏悔。费莉西蒂，当你准备晚餐时，把那把断柄的刀给我放好。我是如此讨厌它。我将每两个小时喝一剂墨西哥茶。这东西味道太难吃了——但它是一种很好的血液净化剂，所以珍妮特阿姨不能反对它。”

故事女孩彻底地进行了她的自我忏悔。她整天坐在厨房里做扣眼工作，靠面包、水和墨西哥茶维持生计。

费莉西蒂做了一件卑鄙的事。她去上班，在故事女孩面前的厨房里做了小葡萄干馅饼。葡萄干馅饼的气味对隐士来说是一种诱惑。故事女孩非常喜欢它们。费莉西蒂当着她的面吃了两颗，然后把剩下的带到果园里给我们。故事女孩透过窗户可以看到我们，正在尽情地享用葡萄干馅饼和爱德华叔叔的樱桃。但她还是在扣眼上做了一些努力。她不会看丹从邮局带回家的新杂志上激动人心的连载，也不会打开父亲的来信。帕特走了过来，但他最诱人的呼噜声没有引起他的情妇的注意，她甚至拒绝拍拍他的乐趣。

下午，珍妮特姨妈无法下山去了解萨拉的情况，因为有人来喝茶——来自马克代尔的米尔沃德一家。米尔沃德先生是一名医生，米尔沃德夫人是一名文学学士，珍妮特阿姨非常希望一切都尽可能好，我们在喝茶之前都被送到了自己的房间里洗澡和穿衣服。故事女孩溜回家，当她回来时，我们倒吸一口冷气。她把头发梳得笔直，编成一条又紧又扭又矮的辫子。她穿着一件印花褪色的旧裙子，肘部有破洞，荷叶边破烂不堪，对她来说太短了。

“莎拉·斯坦利，你失去理智了吗？”珍妮特姨妈问道。 “你戴上这样的装备是什么意思！你不知道我有人陪你喝茶吗？”

“是的，这就是我戴上它的原因，珍妮特阿姨。我想要克辱肉体——”

“如果我发现你像那样在米尔沃德家族面前露面，我会‘羞辱’你，我的女孩！直接回家，穿得得体——或者在厨房吃晚饭。”

故事女孩选择了后者。她非常愤慨。我真的相信，坐在餐桌旁，穿着那件破旧的、过大的衣服，意识到自己看起来最丑，在挑剔的米尔沃德面前只吃面包和水，对她来说是一种真正的幸福。

那天晚上我们去参加传教士聚会时，故事女孩穿着校服，戴着帽子，而费莉西蒂和塞西莉则穿着漂亮的平纹细布。她还用一条烟褐色的丝带绑住了头发，这对她来说很不合适。

我们在教堂门廊见到的第一个人是雷夫人。她告诉我们萨拉没有什么比发烧感冒更糟糕的了。

那天晚上，传教士至少有七位快乐的听众。我们都很高兴萨拉没有得麻疹，故事女孩容光焕发。

“现在你知道你所有的苦行都浪费了，”当我们走回家的时候，费莉西蒂说道，因为佩格·鲍文出国的谣言，我们紧紧地靠在一起。

“哦，我不知道。自从我惩罚了自己之后，我感觉好多了。不过我明天就要补上。”故事女孩精神抖擞地说。 “事实上，我今晚就开始。我一回家就去食品储藏室，睡觉前我会读爸爸的信。传教士不是很出色吗？那个食人者的故事简直太宏大了。我努力记住每一个字，这样我就能像他说的那样说出来。传教士都是如此高尚的人。”

“我想成为一名传教士并经历这样的冒险，”菲利克斯说。

“如果你能确定食人者会像他一样在关键时刻被打断，那就没问题了，”丹说。 “但万一他们不是呢？”

“一旦食人者抓住菲利克斯，没有什么可以阻止他们吃掉他。”费利西蒂咯咯地笑着说。 “他很漂亮，而且很胖。”

我确信菲利克斯在那一刻感觉非常不像传教士。

“我每周都会在我的传教士箱里多投入两美分，”塞西莉坚定地说。

塞西莉的鸡蛋钱每周多花两美分，这意味着某种牺牲。它启发了我们其他人。我们都决定每周增加一美分左右的捐款。迄今为止，彼得还没有任何传教箱，但他决定创办一个。

“我似乎不像你们那样对传教士感兴趣，”他说，“但也许如果我开始给予一些东西，我就会感兴趣。我想知道我的钱是怎么花的我将无法给予太多。当你的父亲离家出走，你的母亲出去洗衣，而你的年龄只够每周拿五十美分时，你就不能给异教徒太多。但我会尽力而为。我的简姨妈喜欢传教。有卫理公会异教徒吗？我想我应该把我的盒子给他们，而不是给长老会异教徒。”

“不，只有在他们皈依之后，他们才变得特别，”费利西蒂说。 “在此之前，他们只是普通的异教徒。但如果你想把钱捐给卫理公会传教士，你可以把它交给马克代尔的卫理公会牧师。我猜长老会没有它也能相处，并照顾他们自己的异教徒。”

“闻一下桑普森夫人的花香吧，”当我们经过路边一块整齐的白色栅栏时，塞西莉说道，栅栏上飘来的气味比阿拉比海岸的香水还要甜美。 “她的玫瑰花都开了，甜威廉的床在白天很漂亮。”

“甜蜜的威廉对于一朵花来说是一个可怕的名字，”故事女孩说。 “威廉是一个男人的名字，男人从来都不可爱。它们是很多美好的东西，但它们并不甜，也不应该是甜的。那是针对女性的。哦，看看路边云杉缝隙里的月光！我想要一件月光色的连衣裙，纽扣上有星星。”

“不行。”费莉西蒂坚决地说。 “你可以看穿它。”

这似乎有效地解决了私酒礼服的问题。

“这完全不可能。”珍妮特姨妈严肃地说。当珍妮特阿姨认真地说任何事情都不可能时，就意味着她正在考虑这件事，而且很可能最终会这么做。如果确实有什么问题，她只是笑笑，根本不肯讨论。

八月开幕日的具体问题是爱德华叔叔最近提出的一个项目。爱德华叔叔的小女儿即将结婚。爱德华叔叔已经写信过来，敦促亚历克叔叔、珍妮特阿姨和奥利维亚阿姨去哈利法克斯参加婚礼，并在那里度过一个星期。

亚历克叔叔和奥利维亚婶婶迫不及待地想去。但珍妮特姨妈起初宣称这是不可能的。

“我们怎么能走开，让这个地方任由那些年轻人摆布呢？”她问道。 “我们回家后发现他们都生病了，房子也被烧毁了。”

“一点也不害怕，”罗杰叔叔嘲笑道。 “费莉西蒂和你一样是个好管家；我会在这里照顾他们所有人，防止他们烧毁房子。多年来你一直答应爱德华去拜访他，现在你再也没有比这更好的机会了。干草已经结束，收获还没有开始，亚历克需要改变。他的脸色一点也不好。”

我认为是罗杰叔叔最后的论点说服了珍妮特姨妈。最后她决定走。罗杰叔叔的房子要关闭，他、彼得和故事女孩要和我们一起住。

我们都很高兴。尤其是费莉西蒂，她仿佛置身于九重天。独自负责一栋大房子，计划和准备一日三餐，管理家禽、奶牛、奶制品和花园，显然体现了费莉西蒂的天堂概念。当然，我们都要去帮忙；但费莉西蒂负责“管理事情”，她以此为荣。

故事女孩也很高兴。

“费莉西蒂要给我上烹饪课，”当我们走进果园时，她向我透露。 “这样不是很好吗？当周围没有大人让我紧张时，我会更容易，如果我犯错也会笑。”

亚历克叔叔和阿姨们周一早上离开了。可怜的珍妮特阿姨心里充满了不祥的预感，她给了我们太多的指控和警告，以至于我们没有试图记住其中的任何一个。亚历克叔叔只是告诉我们要乖，注意罗杰叔叔的话。奥利维亚阿姨用她那三色堇蓝色的眼睛嘲笑我们，并告诉我们她完全知道我们的感受，并希望我们度过一段美好的时光。

“注意他们在适当的时间睡觉，”珍妮特姨妈在开车走出大门时对罗杰叔叔喊道。 “如果发生任何可怕的事情，请给我们发电报。”

然后他们真的走了，我们都留下来“看家”。

罗杰叔叔和彼得去上班了。费莉西蒂立即开始准备晚餐，并为我们每个人分配了自己的服务部分。故事女孩要准备土豆；菲利克斯和丹要摘豌豆并去壳；塞西莉要去参加火灾；我要剥萝卜皮。费莉西蒂宣布她要做一个不倒翁果酱布丁作为晚餐，这让我们垂涎欲滴。

我在后廊剥了萝卜，把它们放进锅里，然后放在炉子上。然后我就可以自由地观察其他工作时间更长的人。厨房里一片欢乐的景象。故事女孩削土豆皮，动作有些缓慢而笨拙——因为她不擅长做家务；丹和菲利克斯剥豌豆壳，并在帕特的耳朵和尾巴上贴上豆荚来折磨他。费莉西蒂脸色通红，表情严肃，熟练地测量和搅拌。

“我正坐在一场悲剧上。”故事女孩突然说道。

菲利克斯和我凝视着。我们不太确定什么是“悲剧”，但我们不认为这是一个古老的蓝色木箱，比如故事女孩无疑坐在上面，如果视力有用的话。

旧箱子填满了桌子和墙之间的角落。菲利克斯和我都没有特别想过这个问题。它又大又重，费莉西蒂打扫厨房时总是对它说些难听的话。

“这个古老的蓝色箱子里藏着一个悲剧，”故事女孩解释道。 “我知道一个关于它的故事。”

“雷切尔·沃德表弟的婚礼物品都在那个旧箱子里，”费利西蒂说。

雷切尔·沃德表弟是谁？为什么她的婚礼物品被关在亚历克叔叔厨房里的一个旧蓝色箱子里？我们立即要求提供这个故事。故事女孩一边削土豆一边向我们讲述这件事。也许土豆受到了影响——费莉西蒂声称眼睛根本没有做好——但故事却没有。

“这是一个悲伤的故事，”故事女孩说，“这件事发生在五十年前，当时金爷爷和奶奶还很年轻。祖母的表弟雷切尔·沃德来和他们一起过冬天。她属于蒙特利尔，也是个孤儿，就像鬼魂一样。我从来没有听说过她长什么样，但她肯定很漂亮，这是当然的。”

“妈妈说她非常多愁善感和浪漫，”费莉西蒂插话道。

“好吧，不管怎样，那年冬天她遇见了威尔·蒙塔古。他很帅——大家都这么说”——

“还有可怕的调情，”费莉西蒂说。

“费莉西蒂，我希望你不要打扰。它破坏了效果。如果我去不断地把不属于它的东西搅拌到那个布丁里，你会有什么感觉？我也有同样的感觉。威尔·蒙塔古爱上了瑞秋·沃德，而她也爱上了他，一切都安排好了，他们将于春天在这里结婚。可怜的雷切尔那个冬天非常快乐；她所有的婚礼用品都是她亲手制作的。那么，你知道，女孩们就这么做了，因为当时还没有缝纫机这样的东西。好吧，四月的婚礼终于到了，所有的宾客都到齐了，雷切尔穿着结婚礼服，等待着她的新郎。而且”——故事女孩放下刀子和土豆，紧握湿手——“蒙太古永远不会来！”

我们感到非常震惊，就好像我们自己也是一位期待的客人一样。

“他发生了什么事情？他也被杀了吗？”菲利克斯问道。

故事女孩叹了口气，继续干活。

“不，确实如此。我希望他是。那会很合适而且浪漫。不，这只是一些可怕的事情。他只得逃债！想要！珍妮特姨妈说，他自始至终都表现得很刻薄。他从来没有给瑞秋说过一句话，而她也再也没有收到过他的消息。”

“猪！”菲利克斯用力说道。

“她当然心碎了。当她知道发生了什么事后，她把所有的结婚用品、亚麻布和一些送给她的礼物都收进了这个旧的蓝色箱子里。然后她带着钥匙回到了蒙特利尔。她再也没有回到岛上——我想她无法忍受。从那时起她就一直住在蒙特利尔，从未结过婚。她现在已经是一位老妇人了——快七十五岁了。从那以后这个箱子就再也没有被打开过。”

“十年前，母亲写信给雷切尔表姐，”塞西莉说，“问她是否可以打开箱子，看看是否有飞蛾钻进去。背后有一条手指那么大的裂缝。雷切尔表姐回信说，如果不是行李箱里有一件东西，她会让妈妈打开箱子，随心所欲地处理这些东西。但她无法忍受除了她自己之外的任何人看到或触摸那一件事。所以她希望一切保持原样。妈妈说，不管有没有飞蛾，她都把手里的东西洗干净了。她说，如果雷切尔表弟每次擦地板时都必须移动那个箱子，就能治愈她多愁善感的胡言乱语。但我想，”塞西莉总结道，“如果我处于雷切尔表姐的位置，我会感觉就像她一样。”

“有什么事情是她不忍心让别人看到的？”我问。

“妈妈认为这是她的婚纱。但父亲说他相信那是威尔·蒙塔古的照片，”费利西蒂说。 “他看到她把它放进去。父亲知道箱子里的一些东西。他十岁，他看见她收拾它。有一件白色的平纹细布婚纱和面纱——还有——还有——a——a”——费莉西蒂垂下眼睛，痛苦地脸红了。

“一件衬裙，从下摆到腰带都是手工绣的。”故事女孩平静地说。

“还有一个瓷制水果篮，把手上放着一个苹果。”费莉西蒂松了口气，继续说道。 “还有一套茶具和一根蓝色烛台。”

“我非常想看看里面的所有东西，”故事女孩说。

“爸爸说，未经雷切尔表姐的允许，决不能打开它，”塞西莉说。

我和菲利克斯恭敬地看着箱子。它在我们眼里有了新的意义，就像一座坟墓，里面埋葬着逝去岁月里死去的浪漫。

“威尔·蒙塔古怎么了？”我问。

“没有什么！”故事女孩恶狠狠地说。 “他只是继续生活并蓬勃发展。过了一段时间，他与​​债权人和解了，然后回到了岛上。最后他娶了一个真正的好女孩，有钱，而且非常幸福。你听说过这么不公正的事吗？”

“贝弗利·金，”一直盯着锅里的费莉西蒂突然喊道，“你把萝卜放进去煮，就像煮土豆一样！”

“这不对吧？”我在羞愧的痛苦中哭了。

“正确的！”但费莉西蒂已经把萝卜拿出来，正在切，而其他人都在嘲笑我。我以自己的名义将一项传统添加到了家庭档案中。

罗杰叔叔一听，怒吼一声；晚上，他又因为彼得讲述菲利克斯试图挤牛奶的事而咆哮。菲利克斯之前已经掌握了从乳房中提取牛奶的技巧。但他以前从未尝试过“给整头牛挤奶”。他相处得不太好。牛踩到了他的脚，最后把水桶翻倒了。

“如果一头牛站不直，你该怎么办？”菲利克斯愤怒地结结巴巴地说。

“这就是问题所在，”罗杰叔叔严肃地摇着头说道。

罗杰叔叔的笑声让人难以忍受，但他的严肃却更难受。

与此同时，在食品储藏室里，裹着围裙的故事女孩正在开始了解面包制作的奥秘。她把面包放在费莉西蒂的眼前，第二天她就要烤它。

“早上你必须做的第一件事就是把它揉好，”费莉西蒂说，“越早揉越好——因为这是一个温暖的夜晚。”

说完我们就上床睡觉了，睡得很香，仿佛蓝箱子、萝卜和歪牛的悲剧在这一切计划中根本没有地位。

第二天早上，我们孩子们起床时已经是五点半了。费莉西蒂在楼梯上加入了我们，她打着哈欠，脸色红润。

“哦，天哪，我自己睡过头了。罗杰叔叔六点钟想吃早餐。好吧，我想无论如何，火已经烧起来了，因为故事女孩已经燃起来了。我猜她起得很早去揉面包。她因为这件事而整晚睡不着觉。”

火已经生起来了，故事女孩红着脸，得意洋洋地从烤箱里拿出一条面包。

“看看吧，”她自豪地说。 “面包的每一块都是我烤好的。我三点起床，它又可爱又轻，所以我只是把它揉捏得很好，然后把它放进烤箱。一切都已完成，一切都已结束。但面包看起来并没有应有的那么大，”她疑惑地补充道。

“莎拉·斯坦利！”费莉西蒂飞过厨房。 “你的意思是，面包揉好后直接放进烤箱，没有让它二次发酵？”

故事女孩脸色煞白。

“是的，我做到了，”她结结巴巴地说。 “哦，费莉西蒂，不是吗？”

“你毁了面包。”费莉西蒂淡淡地说。 “它像石头一样重。我声明，萨拉·斯坦利，我宁愿有一点常识，也不愿成为一个伟大的故事讲述者。”

可怜的故事女孩的屈辱确实很痛苦。

“不要告诉罗杰叔叔，”她谦卑地恳求道。

“哦，我不会告诉他的，”费莉西蒂和蔼地答应道。 “幸运的是，今天有足够的旧面包可以做。这将被送给母鸡。但这是对优质面粉的严重浪费。”

故事女孩带着菲利克斯和我悄悄来到早晨的果园，而丹和彼得则去谷仓干活。

“尝试学习做饭对我来说没有任何用处，”她说。

“没关系，”我安慰道。 “你可以讲精彩的故事。”

“但是这对一个饥饿的男孩有什么好处呢？”故事女孩哀嚎道。

“男孩子并不总是饿，”菲利克斯严肃地说。 “有时候他们不是。”

“我不相信，”故事女孩沉闷地说。

“此外，”菲利克斯补充道，语气就像是还有生命就有希望，“如果你继续努力，你还是可以学会做饭的。”

“但是奥利维亚阿姨不会让我浪费这些东西。我唯一的希望就是这周能学到东西。但我想费莉西蒂现在已经很厌恶我了，不会再给我上课了。”

“我不在乎，”菲利克斯说。 “我比费莉西蒂更喜欢你，即使你不会做饭。很多人都会做面包。但像你这样能讲故事的人并不多。”

“不过，有用总比有趣好。”故事女孩苦涩地叹了口气。

费莉西蒂是个有用的人，在她秘密的灵魂里，她愿意付出一切来变得有趣。这就是人性之道。

那天下午，公司突然袭击了我们。首先登场的是珍妮特姨妈的妹妹帕特森夫人，她带着一个十六岁的女儿和一个两岁的儿子。他们后面跟着一大车马克代尔人。最后，来自温哥华的弗雷文长老夫人和她的妹妹，以及后者的两个小女儿也抵达了。

“从来不下雨，但倾盆大雨，”罗杰叔叔出去牵马时说道。但费莉西蒂的脚却踏在了她的故乡石南荒原上。她整个下午都在烘烤，而且食品储藏室里堆满了饼干、饼干、蛋糕和馅饼，她不在乎卡莱尔是否都来喝茶。塞西莉摆好了桌子，故事女孩则伺候着，然后洗了所有的盘子。但所有令人脸红的荣誉都落到了费莉西蒂身上，她收到了如此多的赞美，以至于在本周剩下的时间里，她的神态都让人难以忍受。她坐在餐桌的一头，优雅而有尊严，仿佛她五岁了十二岁，似乎本能地知道谁吃了糖，谁不吃了。她兴奋而高兴，脸色通红，漂亮得让我看着她都吃不下饭——这是对一个男孩所能给予的最高的赞美。

相反，故事女孩却黯然失色。由于夜晚的不安和早起，她脸色苍白，毫无光泽。也没有机会讲述一个温馨的故事。没有人注意到她。这是费莉西蒂的一天。

喝完茶后，弗雷文夫人和她的妹妹想去参观位于卡莱尔教堂墓地的父亲的坟墓。看来每个人都想跟他们一起去。但很明显，必须有人留在家里陪伴吉米·帕特森，他刚刚在厨房的沙发上睡着了。丹终于自愿照顾他。他有一本新的亨蒂书，他想读完，他说，这比步行到墓地更有趣。

“我想我们会在他醒来之前回来，”帕特森夫人说，“无论如何，他很好，不会造成任何麻烦。不过，别让他出去。他现在感冒了。”

我们离开了，留下丹坐在门槛上看书，吉米·P. 幸福地在沙发上打瞌睡。当我们回来时——菲利克斯、女孩们和我领先于其他人——丹仍然坐在同样的位置和态度;但看不到吉米。

“丹，孩子在哪儿？”费莉西蒂叫道。

丹环顾四周。他惊讶得下巴都掉下来了。我从来没有见过任何人像丹那样愚蠢。

“天哪，我不知道，”他无助地说。

“你对那本该死的书太深了，他已经出来了，亲爱的知道他在哪里，”费莉西蒂心烦意乱地喊道。

“我没有，”丹喊道。 “他一定在房子里。自从你离开后我就一直坐在门对面，除非他从我身上爬过去，否则他就无法出去。他一定在屋子里。”

“他不在厨房里，”费莉西蒂疯狂地跑来跑去，说道，“而且他也进不了房子的另一部分，因为我把门厅的门关得很紧，没有婴儿能打开它——门也关得很紧。”然而。所有的窗户也是如此。他一定是从那扇门出去了，丹·金，这是你的错。”

“他没有走出这扇门，”丹固执地重复道。 “我知道。”

“那么，那么他在哪儿呢？他不在这里。他融化到空气里了吗？”费莉西蒂问道。 “哦，你们都来找他吧。别像傻瓜一样站在那里。我们必须在他母亲到来之前找到他。丹王，你就是个白痴！”

丹当时非常害怕，没有怨恨这一点。然而，无论吉米去了哪里，他都已经离开了，这是可以肯定的。我们像疯子一样撕扯房子和院子；我们调查了每一个可能和不可能的地方。但我们找不到吉米，就好像他真的融化在空气中一样。帕特森夫人来了，但我们没有找到他。事情变得越来越严重了。罗杰叔叔和彼得被从外地召唤出来。帕特森夫人变得歇斯底里，她被带进空房间，接受了建议的治疗。每个人都责怪可怜的丹。塞西莉问他，如果永远永远找不到吉米，他会有什么感觉。故事女孩对马克代尔的某个婴儿有一个可怕的回忆，他就这样迷失了——

“直到第二年春天他们才找到他，他们发现的只是——他的骨架，里面长满了青草，”她低声说道。

“这让我很沮丧，”罗杰叔叔在毫无结果的一个小时过去后说道。 “我真希望宝宝没有掉进沼泽地。他似乎不可能走这么远；但我必须去看看。费莉西蒂，把沙发底下的高筒靴递给我，有一个女孩。”

费莉西蒂脸色苍白，泪流满面，跪倒在地，掀起沙发上的印花布褶边。吉米·帕特森躺在那里，头几乎靠在罗杰叔叔的靴子上，还在熟睡！

“好吧，我会——摇晃！”罗杰叔叔说。

“我知道他从来没有走出过门，”丹得意洋洋地喊道。

当最后一辆马车开走后，费莉西蒂准备了一批面包，我们其余的人坐在后门廊台阶周围，在猫的灯光下吃樱桃，互相射击石头。塞西莉正在寻找信息。

“‘从不下雨，但倾盆大雨’是什么意思？”

“哦，这意味着如果发生任何事情，就一定会发生其他事情，”故事女孩说。 “我会举例说明。墨菲夫人在那儿。四十岁之前，她这辈子从来没有求婚过，然后一周内就求婚了三次，她太慌张了，接受了错误的求婚，从此一直后悔不已。你现在明白这意味着什么了吗？”

“是的，我想是的。”塞西莉有些疑惑的说道。后来我们听到她在食品储藏室里向费莉西蒂传授她新学到的知识。

“‘从来不下雨，但倾盆大雨’意味着没有人愿意和你结婚这么久，但很多人都会这样做。”

第二天，除了罗杰叔叔之外，我们所有人在金的家里或多或少都脾气暴躁。也许我们的神经因吉米·帕特森失踪带来的兴奋而变得不安。但更有可能的是，我们的暴躁是前一天晚上吃的晚餐造成的。即使是小孩子，也不能在睡前毫无顾忌地吃下肉馅饼、冷炒猪肉火腿和水果蛋糕。珍妮特姨妈忘记提醒罗杰叔叔注意我们的睡前零食，所以我们就吃自己认为好的东西。

我们中的一些人做了可怕的梦，早餐时我们所有人都肩上扛着薯条。费莉西蒂和丹开始争吵，吵了一整天。费莉西蒂天生就有我们所说的“发号施令”的天赋，在她母亲不在的情况下，她认为自己有权统治至高无上。她知道最好不要试图对故事女孩宣示权威，菲利克斯和我被允许有一定长度的束缚；但塞西莉、丹和彼得必须尽职尽责地服从她的法令。他们基本上做到了；但在这个特别的早晨，丹显然有叛逆的倾向。当吉米·帕特森被认为迷失时，他曾一度对费莉西蒂对他说的话感到愤怒，而他以断然表达的决心开始了这一天，他不会让费莉西蒂称霸。

这不是一个愉快的一天，更糟糕的是，雨一直下到下午晚些时候。故事女孩还没有从前一天的屈辱中恢复过来。她不肯说话，也不肯讲一个故事。她坐在雷切尔·沃德的胸口上，带着烈士般的表情吃着早餐。早餐后，她默默地洗碗并做卧室的工作。然后，她一只胳膊下夹着一本书，另一只胳膊下夹着帕特，走到楼上大厅靠窗的座位上，不会被引诱离开那个隐居处，这让我们从未如此明智地着迷。她抚摸着咕噜咕噜叫的稻草，继续读下去，对我们所有的恳求表现出令人发狂的冷漠。

就连性格温顺的塞西莉也脾气暴躁，还抱怨头痛。彼得回家看望他的母亲，罗杰叔叔去马克代尔出差了。萨拉·雷（Sara Ray）走过来，但遭到费莉西蒂（Felicity）的冷落，她哭着回家。费莉西蒂独自一人吃晚饭，不屑于寻求或命令帮助。她敲打东西，把炉盖弄得嘎嘎作响，直到塞西莉在沙发上抗议。丹坐在地板上削东西，他唯一的目的和目的就是把事情弄得一团糟，惹恼费莉西蒂，而他完美地实现了这一崇高的野心。

“我希望珍妮特阿姨和亚历克叔叔在家，”菲利克斯说。 “大人离开的乐趣并不像我想象的那么有趣。”

“我希望我能回到多伦多，”我闷闷不乐地说。这个愿望要归咎于肉馅饼。

“我相信我希望你是这样，”费莉西蒂一边说，一边大声地搅动火。

“费丽西蒂·金，任何和你住在一起的人都会永远希望他在别的地方，”丹说。

“我不是在跟你说话，丹·金，”费莉西蒂反驳道，“‘有人找你说话就说，有人叫你就来。’”

“噢，噢，噢，”塞西莉在沙发上哀嚎起来。 “我希望雨能停止。我希望我的头不再疼痛。我希望妈妈从未离开过。我希望你别打扰费莉西蒂，丹。”

“我希望女孩们有点理智，”丹说——这让当时的狂欢结束了。那天早上，一位许愿的仙女可能会在国王的厨房里度过一生中最美好的时光——特别是如果她是一位愤世嫉俗的仙女的话。

但即使是邪恶零食的影响也会随着时间的推移而消失。到了下午茶时间，一切都变得明亮了。雨停了，古老的低椽房间里充满了阳光，阳光在梳妆台上闪闪发光的盘子上跳舞，在地板上形成马赛克，并在桌上闪烁着，桌上摆着美味的饭菜。费莉西蒂穿上了她的蓝色平纹细布，看上去非常漂亮，心情也恢复了不少。塞西莉的头痛好了一些，故事女孩经过午睡精神焕发，脸上带着笑容，眼睛闪闪发亮。丹独自一人继续闷闷不乐，当故事女孩给我们讲一些“牧师”想起的故事时，他甚至没有笑。斯科特先生的李子”就在桌子上。

“你知道，斯科特牧师先生认为讲坛门必须是为斯皮利特制作的，”她说。 “我听到爱德华叔叔讲了很多关于他的故事。他被召唤到这个会众，他在这里长期忠实地工作，尽管他很古怪，但还是很受爱戴的。”

“这意味着什么？” 彼得问道。

“嘘！嘘！” “这只是奇怪的意思。”塞西莉一边说，一边用手肘碰了碰他。 “一个普通人会很奇怪，但如果是一个部长，那就很古怪了。”

“当他年纪很大时，”讲故事的女孩继续说，“长老会认为他是时候退休了。他不这么认为；但长老会却有他们的办法，因为有这么多长老会对他中的一个人有兴趣。他退休了，一个年轻人被叫到卡莱尔。斯科特先生住在城里，但他经常到卡莱尔来，定期拜访所有人，就像他担任部长时一样。这位年轻的牧师是一个非常好的年轻人，并且努力尽到自己的职责。但他非常害怕见到老斯科特先生，因为有人告诉他，老部长对被搁置很生气，如果他见到他，很可能会狠狠地打他一顿。有一天，这位年轻的牧师正在马克代尔拜访克劳福德一家，突然他们听到厨房里传来斯科特老先生的声音。年轻的牧师脸色苍白如死人，恳求克劳福德夫人把他藏起来。但她无法把他带出房间，只能把他藏到瓷器柜子里。年轻的牧师溜进了瓷器衣柜，老斯科特先生走进了房间。他说话很好，读书，祈祷。你知道，那些日子里他们做了很长的祈祷；在祈祷结束时，他说：“主啊，请保佑这个躲在壁橱里的可怜的年轻人。”给他勇气，不要害怕人的脸。让他成为这群饱受虐待的会众的一盏明灯。”想象一下瓷柜里年轻大臣的感受吧！但斯科特先生一祷告完，他就像个男人一样走了出来，尽管他的脸很红。斯科特先生对他很友善，和他握手，但从未提及瓷器壁橱。从那以后他们就成为了最好的朋友。”

“老斯科特先生是怎么发现年轻牧师藏在柜子里的？”菲利克斯问道。

“没有人知道。他们推测他在进屋之前就透过窗户看到了他，并猜测他一定在壁橱里——因为他无法离开房间。”

“先生。斯科特在祖父时代种下了那棵黄李子树，”塞西莉一边剥着一颗李子一边说道，“当他这样做的时候，他说这就像他以前所做的那样，是一种基督教行为。我想知道他是什么意思。我不认为植树有什么基督教意义。”

“我愿意。”故事女孩睿智地说。

当我们再次聚集在一起时，已经挤完奶了，一天的忧虑都已经解决了。我们在枞树林里散发着香脂香气的过道里聚会，吃了八月初的苹果，吃得如此之多，以至于故事女孩说我们让她想起了爱尔兰人的猪。

“住在马克代尔的一个爱尔兰人养了一头小猪，”她说，“他给了它一桶糊状食物。猪把整桶都吃掉了，然后爱尔兰人把猪放进桶里，但它并没有填满桶的一半以上。现在，当它装满一桶糊状物时，情况如何？”

这似乎是一个相当无法解答的难题。我们在树林里漫步时讨论了这个问题，丹和彼得几乎为此争吵起来，丹坚持认为这件事是不可能的，而彼得则认为糊状物在被吃的过程中以某种方式“变得更稠”，并且所以占用的空间更少。在讨论期间，我们来到了山上牧场的栅栏，那里长着“坏浆果”灌木丛。

我不知道这些“坏浆果”到底是什么。我们从来不知道他们的真名。它们是红色的小浆果，外表光滑、诱人，我们被禁止吃它们，因为人们认为它们可能有毒。丹拿起一簇并举起来。

“丹·金，你不敢吃那些浆果吗？”费莉西蒂用她“专横”的语气说道。 “它们是毒药。赶紧把他们丢掉。”

现在，丹根本没有吃浆果的意思。但在费莉西蒂的禁止下，他内心压抑了一整天的叛逆情绪突然爆发。他要给她看！

“只要我愿意，我就吃掉它们，费莉西蒂·金，”他愤怒地说，“我不相信它们是毒药。看这里！”

丹把整堆东西塞进他那张大嘴里，嚼碎了。

“味道好极了，”他咂嘴地说。他又吃了两串，不顾我们惊恐的抗议和费莉西蒂的恳求。

我们担心丹会当场死亡。但立即什么也没有发生。一个小时过去了，我们得出结论，这些坏浆果毕竟不是毒药，我们把丹敢于吃它们的英雄视为英雄。

“我知道他们不会伤害我，”他傲慢地说。 “费莉西蒂太喜欢对所有事情都大惊小怪了。”

然而，当天黑了，我们回到屋子时，我注意到丹脸色苍白，安静。他躺在厨房的沙发上。

“丹，你不舒服吗？”我焦急地小声说道。

“闭嘴，”他说。

我闭嘴了。

费莉西蒂和塞西莉正在食品储藏室里准备午餐，我们都被沙发上传来的一声大声呻吟吓了一跳。

“哦，我病了——我病得很厉害。”丹卑鄙地说，所有的反抗和虚张声势都消失了。

我们都崩溃了，除了塞西莉，只有她保持着冷静。

“你肚子痛吗？”她问道。

“如果那是我的胃的话，我这里会痛得很厉害，”丹呻吟着，把手放在胃下方相当大的身体部位上。 “哦哦哦！”

“去找罗杰叔叔，”塞西莉命令道，她脸色苍白，但镇定自若。 “费莉西蒂，把水壶放上。丹，我会给你芥末和温水。”

芥末和温水很快就发挥了应有的作用，但丹并没有得到缓解。他继续扭动、呻吟。罗杰叔叔从自己的地方被叫来，立刻去找医生，让彼得下山去找雷太太。彼得去了，但回来时只有萨拉陪同。雷夫人和朱迪·皮诺都不在家。萨拉最好呆在家里；她毫无用处，只能徒增混乱，漫无目的地闲逛，哭着问丹是不是要死了。

塞西莉负责一切。幸福可以迷惑味蕾，故事女孩可以俘虏灵魂；但当痛苦和疾病令人烦恼时，塞西莉就是施助的天使。她让扭动的丹上床睡觉。她让他吞下“医生书”中推荐的所有可用的解毒剂；她用热布给他敷上，直到她忠实的小手被烫掉了一半。

毫无疑问，丹正承受着剧烈的疼痛。他呻吟着，翻滚着，哭着要他的母亲。

“哦，这不是很可怕吗！”费莉西蒂一边说，一边在厨房地板上走来走去，绞着双手。 “哦，医生怎么还不来？我告诉丹，坏浆果是毒药。但他们肯定不能完全杀人。”

“爸爸的表弟四十年前因为吃东西而死了，”萨拉·雷抽泣着说。

“闭嘴，”彼得凶狠地低声说道。 “你应该理智一点，不要对女孩们说这种话。他们不想比现在更害怕。”

“但是爸爸的表弟确实死了，”莎拉重申道。

“我的简姨妈过去常常用威士忌擦止痛，”彼得建议道。

“我们没有威士忌。”费莉西蒂不以为然地说。 “这是一座禁酒之家。”

“但是在外面擦威士忌并没有什么害处，”彼得说。 “只有当你把它带进去时，它才会对你有害。”

“好吧，无论如何，我们没有，”费莉西蒂说。 “我想蓝莓酒不能代替它吧？”

彼得不认为蓝莓酒有什么好处。

到了十点钟，丹的情况才开始好转。但从那时起他进步很快。当罗杰叔叔到达马克代尔时，医生不在家，十点半来的时候，他发现病人非常虚弱，脸色苍白，但没有疼痛。

格里尔医生拍拍塞西莉的头，告诉她她是块小砖头，做了正确的事，检查了一些致命的浆果，并给出了他的意见，它们可能有毒，给丹服用了一些粉末并建议嘱咐他以后不要乱动禁果，然后就走了。

雷太太现在出现了，正在寻找莎拉，并说她会和我们一起过夜。

“如果你愿意的话，我将非常感激你，”罗杰叔叔说。 “我感觉有点震动。我催促珍妮特和亚历克去哈利法克斯，并在他们不在的时候承担起照顾孩子的责任，但我不知道我让自己陷入了什么困境。如果发生任何事情，我永远不会原谅自己——尽管我相信凡人没有能力去监督孩子们吃的东西。现在，你们这些小鱼儿，直接上床睡觉吧。丹已经脱离危险了，你不能再做任何好事了。除了塞西莉之外，你们中的任何一个人都没有做过多少事。她的肩膀很突出。”

“这真是可怕的一天，”当我们爬上楼梯时，费莉西蒂沉闷地说。

“我想是我们自己把事情搞得这么可怕。”故事女孩坦率地说。 “但这将是一个很好的故事，”她补充道。

“我太累了，但我很感激，”塞西莉叹了口气。

我们都有这样的感觉。

到了早上，丹又恢复了正常，尽管脸色苍白、虚弱。他想要起身，但塞西莉命令他留在床上。幸运的是，费莉西蒂忘记重复这个命令，所以丹确实留在了床上。塞西莉给他送饭，并在空闲时间给他读一本亨蒂的书。故事女孩走上前给他讲了一些奇妙的故事。萨拉·雷给他带来了她自己做的布丁。莎拉的初衷是好的，但布丁——好吧，丹把大部分布丁喂给了帕迪，帕迪蜷缩在床脚，发出悦耳的咕噜声，让全世界都确信自己是一只猫。

“他不就是一个伟大的老家伙吗？”丹说。 “他知道我有点病了，就像一个人一样。当我身体好的时候，他从来不会不注意我。”

那天，菲利克斯、彼得和我被要求帮助罗杰叔叔做一些木工工作，而费利西蒂则沉迷于一场她灵魂如此珍视的打扫房间的狂欢；到了晚上，我们才有空在果园见面，懒洋洋地躺在史蒂芬叔叔步道的草地上。八月，这是一个阴凉甜蜜的地方，散发着成熟苹果的芳香，充满了可爱而精致的影子。透过它的开口，我们远远地看到蓝色的山峦和绿色、古老、宁静的田野，夕阳的余辉洒满了它们。头顶上，连带的树叶形成了一个绿色的、低声的屋顶。世界上没有所谓的匆忙，而我们则在那里徘徊，谈论“卷心菜和国王”。故事女孩的一个故事，其中的王子比黑莓还厚，而王后则像毛茛一样常见，引发了我们对国王的讨论。我们想知道成为国王会是什么样子。彼得觉得这样应该没问题，只是有点不方便，因为一直戴着王冠。

“哦，但他们没有，”故事女孩说。 “也许他们曾经戴过帽子，但现在他们戴帽子了。皇冠仅适用于特殊场合。如果你能看一下他们的照片，他们看起来很像其他人。”

“我不认为这会很有趣，”塞西莉说。 “不过我想见见女王。这是我反对岛上的一件事——你永远没有机会在这里看到这样的事情。”

“威尔士亲王曾经来过夏洛特敦，”彼得说。 “我的简姨妈在很近的地方看到了他。”

“那是在我们出生之前，这样的事情直到我们死后才会再发生。”塞西莉带着非常不寻常的悲观情绪说道。

“我认为皇后和国王很久以前就更厚重了，”故事女孩说。 “它们现在看起来确实非常稀缺。这个国家任何地方都没有。也许当我去欧洲时我会看到一些。”

嗯，故事女孩注定要亲自站在国王面前，她将成为他们乐意尊敬的人。但当我们坐在老果园里时，我们并不知道这一点。我们认为她能有机会见到它们已经是一件非常了不起的事情了。

“女王可以为所欲为吗？”萨拉·雷想知道。

“现在不行，”故事女孩解释道。

“那么我认为成为其中一员没有任何用处，”萨拉决定。

“国王现在也不能为所欲为，”菲利克斯说。 “如果他试图这样做，但如果这不能取悦其他人，议会或其他什么机构就会压制他。”

“‘压制’不是一个可爱的词吗？”故事女孩漫不经心地说。 “这太有表现力了。斯奎尔！”

正如故事女孩所说，这当然是一个可爱的词。如果是这样的音乐，即使是国王也不会介意被压制。

“罗杰叔叔说马丁·福布斯的妻子压制了他，”费利西蒂说。 “他说马丁自从结婚后就不能拥有自己的灵魂了。”

“我很高兴，”塞西莉报复地说。

我们都盯着看。这和塞西莉很不一样。

“马丁·福布斯是萨默赛德一个可怕男人的兄弟，他叫我约翰尼，这就是原因，”她解释道。 “两年前，他和妻子一起来这里，每次跟我说话时，他都叫我约翰尼。只是你喜欢！我永远不会原谅他。”

“这不是基督教精神，”费莉西蒂斥责道。

“我不在乎。”如果詹姆斯·福布斯叫你约翰尼，你会原谅他吗？”塞西莉问道。

“我知道一个关于马丁·福布斯祖父的故事，”故事女孩说。 “很久以前，卡莱尔教堂里没有任何唱诗班——你知道，只有一个先驱。但最后他们组建了一个合唱团，安德鲁·麦克弗森在其中担任贝斯手。老福布斯先生已经很多年没有去教堂了，因为他患有风湿病，但他在唱诗班唱歌的第一个星期日去了，因为他从来没有听过有人唱低音，他想听听那是什么感觉。金祖父问他对合唱团的看法。福布斯先生说这是“verra guid”，但至于安德鲁的贝斯，“启动它时根本没有贝斯——这只是一个毛茸茸的时间。”

如果你能听到故事女孩的“bur-rrr！”老福布斯先生本人不可能对它投入更多的多立克式蔑视。我们在凉爽的草地上打滚，放声大笑。

“可怜的丹，”塞西莉同情地说。 “他独自一人待在自己的房间里，错过了所有的乐趣。我想，当他不得不躺在床上的时候，我们却在这里玩得这么开心，真是太卑鄙了。”

“如果丹在被告知不要吃坏浆果时没有吃错，他就不会生病，”费利西蒂说。 “当你做错事时，你一定会受到惩罚。他没死只是天意。”

“这让我想起了另一个关于老斯科特先生的故事，”故事女孩说。 “你知道，我告诉过你他非常生气，因为长老会让他退休。他特别指责两名部长是幕后黑手。有一次，他的一位朋友试图安慰他，对他说：

“‘你应该听天由命。’

“‘天意与这件事无关，’老斯科特先生说。 “这是麦克洛斯基一家和魔鬼。”

“你不应该谈论那个——那个——魔鬼，”费莉西蒂相当震惊地说。

“嗯，斯科特先生就是这么说的。”

“哦，部长谈论他是可以的。但对于小女孩来说这可不太好。如果你不得不谈论——谈论——他——你可能会说“老划痕”。妈妈就是这么称呼他的。”

“这是麦克洛斯基夫妇和老划痕，”故事女孩若有所思地说，好像她想看看哪个版本更有效。 “这样不行，”她决定。

“我认为，当你讲故事时，提及那个——那个——那个人并没有什么坏处，”塞西莉说。 “只是说白了，这是不行的。这听起来太像咒骂了。”

“我还知道关于斯科特先生的另一个故事。”讲故事的女孩说道。 “他结婚后不久，有一天早上，到了去教堂的时间，他的妻子还没有完全准备好。所以，为了给她一个教训，他独自开车走了，留下她在炎热和尘土中一路步行——将近两英里。她非常平静地接受了。我想，当你嫁给像老斯科特先生这样的男人时，这是最好的方式。但仅仅几个星期天之后，他自己就迟到了！我想斯科特夫人以为鹅的酱汁就是公鹅的酱汁，因为她像他一样溜了出去，开车去教堂。老斯科特先生终于到达了教堂，天气炎热，尘土飞扬，脾气也不太好。他走上讲坛，俯身看着他的妻子，她平静地坐在一旁的长椅上。

“‘做得很巧妙，’他大声说道，‘但是迪娜再试一次！’”

在我们的欢笑声中，帕特沿着步道走来，他威严的尾巴在草地上摇曳。事实证明，他是丹的先驱，衣冠楚楚，头脑清醒。

“你认为你应该起床吗，丹？”塞西莉焦急地说。

“我必须这么做，”丹说。 “窗户开着，我无法忍受听到你们在下面的笑声，而我却想念这一切。 '双方，我又好了。我感觉很好。”

“我想这对你来说是一个教训，丹·金，”费莉西蒂用她最令人抓狂的语气说道。 “我想你不会很快忘记的。当你被告知不要再吃那些坏浆果时，你就不会再吃了。”

丹在草地上为自己选了一个柔软的地方，正要坐下，费丽西蒂巧妙的讲话让他中途停下来。他直起身来，一脸愤怒地看着他那惹人生气的妹妹。然后，他气得满脸通红，但一言不发，大步走上人行道。

“现在他疯了，”塞西莉责备地说。 “哦，费莉西蒂，你为什么就不能闭嘴呢？”

“怎么，我说了什么让他生气了？”费莉西蒂真诚地困惑地问道。

“我觉得兄弟姐妹总是吵架是很糟糕的。”塞西莉叹了口气。 “考恩一家总是打架；你和丹很快就会变得同样糟糕。”

“哦，说点道理吧，”费莉西蒂说。 “丹太敏感了，和他说话不安全。我想他会对昨晚造成的所有麻烦感到抱歉。但你只是在一切事情上支持他，塞西莉。”

“我不！”

“你做！你没必要这样做，尤其是当母亲不在的时候。她让我负责。”

“昨晚丹生病时，你并没有承担太多责任。”菲利克斯恶狠狠地说。那天晚上喝茶时，费莉西蒂告诉他，他比以前更胖了。这就是他的针锋相对。 “当时你很高兴把这一切都交给塞西莉。”

“谁在跟你说话？”费莉西蒂说。

“现在，看这里，”讲故事的女孩说，“首先我们知道我们都会吵架，然后我们中的一些人明天会整天生闷气。破坏一整天真是太可怕了。让我们都安静地坐着，数到一百，然后再说一句话。”

我们静静地坐着，数着一百个。塞西莉说完后，起身去找丹，决心安抚他受伤的感情。费莉西蒂在她身后打电话告诉丹，她在食品储藏室里专门为他准备了一份果酱。菲利克斯递给费丽西蒂一个非常漂亮的苹果，这是他一直留着自己吃的。故事女孩开始了一个关于海边城堡里一个被施了魔法的少女的故事。但我们从未听到它的结束。因为，正当黄昏之星透过西方玫瑰色的窗户看到白色的时候，塞西莉飞过果园，绞着双手。

“哦，来吧，快点来吧，”她喘着气说。 “丹又吃坏浆果了——他吃了一大堆——他说他要给费莉西蒂看。我无法阻止他。你来试试吧。”

我们一起站起来，冲向房子。在院子里，我们遇到了丹，他从冷杉树林中走出来，津津有味地咀嚼着致命的浆果。

“丹王，你想自杀吗？”故事女孩问道。

“看这里，丹，”我劝告道。 “你不应该这样做。想想你昨晚病得有多严重，以及你给大家带来的麻烦。别再吃了，有个好人。”

“好吧，”丹说。 “我已经得到了我想要的一切。它们味道很好。我不相信是他们让我生病的。”

但现在他的怒气已经平息，他看起来有些害怕。费莉希蒂不在那儿。我们在厨房里发现她正在生火。

“贝夫，把水壶装满水，然后加热。”她用一种无奈的语气说道。 “如果丹再次生病，我们就必须做好准备。我希望妈妈在家，仅此而已。我希望她永远不会再离开。丹·金，你等着我告诉她你的行为。”

“做傻事！我不会生病，”丹说。 “如果你开始讲故事，费丽西蒂·金，我也会讲一些。我知道妈妈说她不在的时候你可以用多少鸡蛋——我也知道你已经用了多少。我数过了。所以小姐，你还是少管闲事吧。”

“当你可能在一小时后死去时，这是与你妹妹交谈的好方法！”费莉西蒂反驳道，她的愤怒和对丹的真正惊慌之间流着泪。

但一个小时后，丹的健康状况仍然良好，并宣布他打算睡觉。他去了，很快就睡得很安稳，好像良心和胃里都没有任何事一样。但费莉西蒂宣称她打算保持水温，直到所有危险过去为止。我们坐起来陪伴她。十一点钟，罗杰叔叔走进来时，我们正坐在那里。

“你们这些小鱼儿大晚上的到底在干什么？”他愤怒地问道。 “你两个小时前就应该上床睡觉了。夜晚，熊熊的火焰热得足以融化一只黄铜猴子！你已经失去理智了吗？

“这是因为丹，”费莉西蒂疲倦地解释道。 “他去采了更多的坏浆果——很多——我们确信他会再次生病。但他还没来，现在他已经睡着了。”

“那个男孩是不是面目全非，怒目而视？”罗杰叔叔说。

“都是费莉西蒂的错，”塞西莉喊道，无论是坏的报道还是好的报道，她总是站在丹的一边。 “她告诉他，她猜他已经吸取了教训，不会再做她告诉他不要做的事情了。所以他就去吃了它们，因为她让他很烦恼。”

“费莉西蒂·金，如果你不小心，你就会长大成为那种逼着丈夫喝酒的女人。”罗杰叔叔严肃地说。

“我怎么知道丹会表现得像头骡子！”费莉西蒂叫道。

“你们每个人都去睡觉吧。当你爸爸和妈妈回家时，我会很感激的。一个可怜的单身汉竟然要照顾像你这样的一屋子孩子，真是可怜。再也没有人会发现我这样做了。费莉西蒂，储藏室里有什么可以吃的东西吗？”

最后一个问题是所有问题中最不友善的。费莉西蒂本来可以原谅罗杰叔叔，但除了这一点。实在是不可原谅。当我们爬上楼梯时，她向我透露她讨厌罗杰叔叔。她的红唇颤抖着，美丽的蓝眼睛里充满了受伤的自尊心的泪水。在昏暗的烛光下，她显得异常美丽动人。我用手臂搂住她，向她行了一个表弟行礼。

“别管他，费莉西蒂，”我说。 “他只是个成年人。”

星期五在国王家里是舒适的一天。大家心情都很好。 《故事女孩》讲述了多个故事，从东方神话中的阿弗里特和精灵，到骑士精神的风流岁月，再到卡莱尔上班族的家常轶事。她又是一位戴着丝绸面纱的东方公主，是一位伪装成侍从跟随新郎参加巴勒斯坦战争的新娘，是一位在月光下的荒原上与强盗跳科兰托舞以赎回钻石项链的英勇女士，以及“巴斯柯克的女儿”加入了节制之子和女儿会“只是为了看看里面有什么”；在每次模仿中，她都如此彻底地模仿，以至于当她再次从我们熟悉的故事女孩中出现时，我们都感到惊讶。

塞西莉和莎拉·雷在一本旧杂志上发现了一种“甜蜜”的新针织蕾丝图案，并度过了一个快乐的下午学习它并“谈论秘密”。偶然——我发誓——无意中听到了其中的某些秘密，我得知莎拉·雷为约翰尼·普莱斯命名了一个苹果——“塞西莉，你真的活着，里面有八颗种子，你知道八的意思是‘它们’。”两人都爱’”——虽然塞西莉承认威利·弗雷泽在他的石板上写了字并向她展示，

“如果你爱我就像我爱你一样，
没有刀子可以把我们的爱切成两半”——

“但是，萨拉·雷，你永远不要把这个呼吸到活生生的灵魂上。”

菲利克斯还断言，他听到莎拉非常严肃地问塞西莉，

“塞西莉，我们要多大才能拥有真正的情人？”

但萨拉始终矢口否认。所以我倾向于相信菲利克斯只是自己编造出来的。

帕迪因抓到一只老鼠而出名，并对此感到难以忍受的自负——直到莎拉·雷治愈了他，称他为“亲爱的、可爱的猫”，并亲吻了他的耳朵。然后帕特垂着尾巴，狼狈地溜走了。他讨厌被称为“可爱的猫”。他有幽默感，帕特。很少有猫有；他们中的大多数人对阿谀奉承的胃口如此之大，以至于他们会接受任何奉承，并以此为乐。稻谷的味道更佳。故事女孩和我是唯一能够按照他的喜好向他表示赞美的人。故事女孩会用拳头打他的耳朵，说：“帕迪，上帝保佑你那颗灰色的心，你真是个老流氓。”帕特会发出满意的咕噜声；我常常抓起他背上的一把皮，轻轻地摇晃他，然后说：“帕特，你忘记的东西比任何人所知道的还要多。”我发誓帕迪会高兴地舔他的排骨。但被称为“可爱的猫”！哦，萨拉，萨拉！

费莉西蒂尝试了一种新的、复杂的蛋糕配方——并且获得了最可喜的运气——一种华丽的李子混合物，让你垂涎欲滴。她用的鸡蛋数量一定会震惊珍妮特阿姨节俭的灵魂，但那块蛋糕就像美丽一样，本身就是借口。罗杰叔叔在下午茶时间吃了三片，并告诉费莉西蒂她是一位艺术家。这个可怜的人的意思是恭维他。但费莉西蒂知道布莱尔叔叔是个艺术家，对这种鱼儿的评价很差，她一脸愤慨地反驳道，她确实不是！

“彼得说枫树空地里有多少覆盆子，”丹说。 “我们喝完茶后可以去摘一些吗？”

“我很愿意，”费莉西蒂叹了口气，“但是我们回家时都很累，还要挤奶。你们最好一个人去。”

“彼得和我将参加一个晚上的挤奶工作，”罗杰叔叔说。 “你们都可以走了。我有一个想法，明天晚上，当人们回家时，吃一份覆盆子派会恰到好处。”

于是，喝完茶，我们就带着壶和杯子出发了。费莉西蒂是个体贴的人，她还随身带了一小篮子果冻饼干。我们必须穿过枫树林回到罗杰叔叔农场的尽头——这是一条美丽的小路，穿过一个绿色的世界，树枝低声细语，蕨类植物芳香四溢，阳光不断变换。覆盆子很丰富，我们很快就装满了容器。然后我们聚集在一个小小的木泉周围，在它的嫩枫树下冰冷而清澈，吃了果冻饼干。故事女孩给我们讲了一个关于山间幽谷里闹鬼的春天的故事，那里住着一位美丽的白人女士，她用一个镶满珠宝的金杯向所有来者发誓。

“如果你和她一起喝了这杯酒，”故事女孩说道，她的眼睛在我们周围翠绿的暮色中闪闪发光，“你就再也不会出现在这个世界上；你被直接带到了仙境，并与仙女新娘住在那里。你永远不想回到地球，因为当你喝下魔法杯时，你忘记了你所有的前世，除了每年允许你记住它的那一天。”

“我希望有一个像仙境一样的地方，并且有一种方法可以到达它，”塞西莉说。

“我认为确实有这样一个地方——尽管有爱德华叔叔，”故事女孩梦幻般地说，“而且我想也有办法到达那里，只要我们能找到它。”

嗯，故事女孩是对的。有一个地方就像仙境一样——但只有孩子才能找到通往那里的路。直到他们老得忘记了路，他们才知道那是仙境。有一天，当他们苦苦寻找却找不到时，他们才意识到自己失去了什么；这就是人生的悲剧。在那一天，伊甸园的大门在他们身后关闭，黄金时代结束了。从此以后，他们必须生活在平凡日子的共同光明中。只有少数内心仍保持童心的人能够再次找到那条公平的、迷失的道路；他们比凡人有福。他们，也只有他们，才能给我们带来来自那个我们曾经寄居、永远被流放的亲爱国家的消息。世界称他们为歌手、诗人、艺术家和故事讲述者；但他们只是从未忘记仙境之路的人。

当我们坐在那里时，那个尴尬的人走过了，他的枪扛在肩上，他的狗在他身边。在枫树林的中心，他看起来并不像一个笨拙的人。他优雅地大步走在右边，抬起头，一副他所看到的一切的君主的样子。

故事女孩用她的一部分令人愉快的大胆吻了吻她的指尖。尴尬的男人摘下帽子，庄严而优雅地向她鞠了一躬。

“我不明白为什么他们称他为笨蛋，”当他消失在听不到的地方时，塞西莉说道。

“如果你在聚会或野餐时看到他，你就会明白为什么，”费莉西蒂说，“每当有女人看着他时，他就会试图传递盘子，然后把盘子扔掉。他们说看到他很可怜。”

“明年夏天我一定要熟悉一下那个男人。”故事女孩说道。 “如果我再拖延下去就太晚了。我长得太快了，奥利维亚阿姨说明年夏天我必须穿及踝裙。如果我开始看起来长大了，他就会害怕我，然后我就永远无法解开黄金里程碑之谜了。”

“你认为他会告诉你爱丽丝是谁吗？”我问。

“我已经知道爱丽丝是谁了，”神秘生物说道。但她不会告诉我们更多的事情。

当果冻饼干吃完后，就该回家了，因为当夜幕降临时，还有比沙沙作响的枫树林和可能施了魔法的泉水更舒适的地方。当我们到达果园脚下并通过树篱的缝隙进入果园时，正是“灯光之间”的神奇而神秘的时刻。西边，一朵水仙花的光芒悬挂在落日余晖的山谷上空，金祖父的巨大柳树在它的映衬下矗立起来，就像一座圆形的树叶山。东方，枫林上方泛着银色的光泽，暗示着月出。但果园是一个充满阴影和神秘声音的地方。在中心空地的中间，我们遇到了彼得。如果说有一个男孩陷入了纯粹的恐惧，那么这个男孩就是彼得。他的脸色惨白如被晒伤的脸，眼中充满了惊慌。

“Peter, what is the matter?” cried Cecily.

“There’s—SOMETHING—in the house, RINGING A BELL,” said Peter, in a shaking voice. Not the Story Girl herself could have invested that “something” with more of creepy horror. We all drew close together. I felt a crinkly feeling along my back which I had never known before. If Peter had not been so manifestly frightened we might have thought he was trying to “pass a joke” on us. But such abject terror as his could not be counterfeited.

“Nonsense!” said Felicity, but her voice shook. “There isn’t a bell in the house to ring. You must have imagined it, Peter. Or else Uncle Roger is trying to fool us.”

“Your Uncle Roger went to Markdale right after milking,” said Peter. “He locked up the house and gave me the key. There wasn’t a soul in it then, that I’m sure of. I druv the cows to the pasture, and I got back about fifteen minutes ago. I set down on the front door steps for a moment, and all at once I heard a bell ring in the house eight times. I tell you I was skeered. I made a bolt for the orchard—and you won’t catch me going near that house till your Uncle Roger comes home.”

You wouldn’t catch any of us doing it. We were almost as badly scared as Peter. There we stood in a huddled demoralized group. Oh, what an eerie place that orchard was! What shadows! What noises! What spooky swooping of bats! You COULDN’T look every way at once, and goodness only knew what might be behind you!

“There CAN’T be anybody in the house,” said Felicity.

“Well, here’s the key—go and see for yourself,” said Peter.

Felicity had no intention of going and seeing.

“I think you boys ought to go,” she said, retreating behind the defence of sex. “You ought to be braver than girls.”

“But we ain’t,” said Felix candidly. “I wouldn’t be much scared of anything REAL. But a haunted house is a different thing.”

“I always thought something had to be done in a place before it could be haunted,” said Cecily. “Somebody killed or something like that, you know. Nothing like that ever happened in our family. The Kings have always been respectable.”

“Perhaps it is Emily King’s ghost,” whispered Felix.

“She never appeared anywhere but in the orchard,” said the Story Girl. “Oh, oh, children, isn’t there something under Uncle Alec’s tree?”

We peered fearfully through the gloom. There WAS something—something that wavered and fluttered—advanced—retreated—

“That’s only my old apron,” said Felicity. “I hung it there to-day when I was looking for the white hen’s nest. Oh, what shall we do? Uncle Roger may not be back for hours. I CAN’T believe there’s anything in the house.”

“Maybe it’s only Peg Bowen,” suggested Dan.

There was not a great deal of comfort in this. We were almost as much afraid of Peg Bowen as we would be of any spectral visitant.

Peter scoffed at the idea.

“Peg Bowen wasn’t in the house before your Uncle Roger locked it up, and how could she get in afterwards?” he said. “No, it isn’t Peg Bowen. It’s SOMETHING that WALKS.”

“I know a story about a ghost,” said the Story Girl, the ruling passion strong even in extremity. “It is about a ghost with eyeholes but no eyes—”

“Don’t,” cried Cecily hysterically. “Don’t you go on! Don’t you say another word! I can’t bear it! Don’t you!”

The Story Girl didn’t. But she had said enough. There was something in the quality of a ghost with eyeholes but no eyes that froze our young blood.

There never were in all the world six more badly scared children than those who huddled in the old King orchard that August night.

All at once—something—leaped from the bough of a tree and alighted before us. We split the air with a simultaneous shriek. We would have run, one and all, if there had been anywhere to run to. But there wasn’t—all around us were only those shadowy arcades. Then we saw with shame that it was only our Paddy.

“Pat, Pat,” I said, picking him up, feeling a certain comfort in his soft, solid body. “Stay with us, old fellow.”

But Pat would none of us. He struggled out of my clasp and disappeared over the long grasses with soundless leaps. He was no longer our tame, domestic, well acquainted Paddy. He was a strange, furtive animal—a “questing beast.”

Presently the moon rose; but this only made matters worse. The shadows had been still before; now they moved and danced, as the night wind tossed the boughs. The old house, with its dreadful secret, was white and clear against the dark background of spruces. We were woefully tired, but we could not sit down because the grass was reeking with dew.

“The Family Ghost only appears in daylight,” said the Story Girl. “I wouldn’t mind seeing a ghost in daylight. But after dark is another thing.”

“There’s no such thing as a ghost,” I said contemptuously. Oh, how I wished I could believe it!

“Then what rung that bell?” said Peter. “Bells don’t ring of themselves, I s’pose, specially when there ain’t any in the house to ring.”

“Oh, will Uncle Roger never come home!” sobbed Felicity. “I know he’ll laugh at us awful, but it’s better to be laughed at than scared like this.”

Uncle Roger did not come until nearly ten. Never was there a more welcome sound than the rumble of his wheels in the lane. We ran to the orchard gate and swarmed across the yard, just as Uncle Roger alighted at the front door. He stared at us in the moonlight.

“Have you tormented any one into eating more bad berries, Felicity?” he demanded.

“Oh, Uncle Roger, don’t go in,” implored Felicity seriously. “There’s something dreadful in there—something that rings a bell. Peter heard it. Don’t go in.”

“There’s no use asking the meaning of this, I suppose,” said Uncle Roger with the calm of despair. “I’ve gave up trying to fathom you young ones. Peter, where’s the key? What yarn have you been telling?”

“I DID hear a bell ring,” said Peter stubbornly.

Uncle Roger unlocked and flung open the front door. As he did so, clear and sweet, rang out ten bell-like chimes.

“That’s what I heard,” cried Peter. “There’s the bell!”

We had to wait until Uncle Roger stopped laughing before we heard the explanation. We thought he never WOULD stop.

“That’s Grandfather King’s old clock striking,” he said, as soon as he was able to speak. “Sammy Prott came along after tea, when you were away to the forge, Peter, and I gave him permission to clean the old clock. He had it going merrily in no time. And now it has almost frightened you poor little monkeys to death.”

We heard Uncle Roger chuckling all the way to the barn.

“Uncle Roger can laugh,” said Cecily, with a quiver in her voice, “but it’s no laughing matter to be so scared. I just feel sick, I was so frightened.”

“I wouldn’t mind if he’d laugh once and have it done with it,” said Felicity bitterly. “But he’ll laugh at us for a year, and tell the story to every soul that comes to the place.”

“You can’t blame him for that,” said the Story Girl. “I shall tell it, too. I don’t care if the joke is as much on myself as any one. A story is a story, no matter who it’s on. But it IS hateful to be laughed at—and grown-ups always do it. I never will when I’m grown up. I’ll remember better.”

“It’s all Peter’s fault,” said Felicity. “I do think he might have had more sense than to take a clock striking for a bell ringing.”

“I never heard that kind of a strike before,” protested Peter. “It don’t sound a bit like other clocks. And the door was shut and the sound kind o’ muffled. It’s all very fine to say you would have known what it was, but I don’t believe you would.”

“I wouldn’t have,” said the Story Girl honestly. “I thought it WAS a bell when I heard it, and the door open, too. Let us be fair, Felicity.”

“I’m dreadful tired,” sighed Cecily.

We were all “dreadful tired,” for this was the third night of late hours and nerve racking strain. But it was over two hours since we had eaten the cookies, and Felicity suggested that a saucerful apiece of raspberries and cream would not be hard to take. It was not, for any one but Cecily, who couldn’t swallow a mouthful.

“I’m glad father and mother will be back to-morrow night,” she said. “It’s too exciting when they’re away. That’s my opinion.”

Felicity was cumbered with many cares the next morning. For one thing, the whole house must be put in apple pie order; and for another, an elaborate supper must be prepared for the expected return of the travellers that night. Felicity devoted her whole attention to this, and left the secondary preparation of the regular meals to Cecily and the Story Girl. It was agreed that the latter was to make a cornmeal pudding for dinner.

In spite of her disaster with the bread, the Story Girl had been taking cooking lessons from Felicity all the week, and getting on tolerably well, although, mindful of her former mistake, she never ventured on anything without Felicity’s approval. But Felicity had no time to oversee her this morning.

“You must attend to the pudding yourself,” she said. “The recipe’s so plain and simple even you can’t go astray, and if there’s anything you don’t understand you can ask me. But don’t bother me if you can help it.”

The Story Girl did not bother her once. The pudding was concocted and baked, as the Story Girl proudly informed us when we came to the dinner-table, all on her own hook. She was very proud of it; and certainly as far as appearance went it justified her triumph. The slices were smooth and golden; and, smothered in the luscious maple sugar sauce which Cecily had compounded, were very fair to view. Nevertheless, although none of us, not even Uncle Roger or Felicity, said a word at the time, for fear of hurting the Story Girl’s feelings, the pudding did not taste exactly as it should. It was tough—decidedly tough—and lacked the richness of flavour which was customary in Aunt Janet’s cornmeal puddings. If it had not been for the abundant supply of sauce it would have been very dry eating indeed. Eaten it was, however, to the last crumb. If it were not just what a cornmeal pudding might be, the rest of the bill of fare had been extra good and our appetites matched it.

“I wish I was twins so’s I could eat more,” said Dan, when he simply had to stop.

“What good would being twins do you?” asked Peter. “People who squint can’t eat any more than people who don’t squint, can they?”

We could not see any connection between Peter’s two questions.

“What has squinting got to do with twins?” asked Dan.

“Why, twins are just people that squint, aren’t they?” said Peter.

We thought he was trying to be funny, until we found out that he was quite in earnest. Then we laughed until Peter got sulky.

“I don’t care,” he said. “How’s a fellow to know? Tommy and Adam Cowan, over at Markdale, are twins; and they’re both cross-eyed. So I s’posed that was what being twins meant. It’s all very fine for you fellows to laugh. I never went to school half as much as you did; and you was brought up in Toronto, too. If you’d worked out ever since you was seven, and just got to school in the winter, there’d be lots of things you wouldn’t know, either.”

“Never mind, Peter,” said Cecily. “You know lots of things they don’t.”

But Peter was not to be conciliated, and took himself off in high dudgeon. To be laughed at before Felicity—to be laughed at BY Felicity—was something he could not endure. Let Cecily and the Story Girl cackle all they wanted to, and let those stuck-up Toronto boys grin like chessy-cats; but when Felicity laughed at him the iron entered into Peter’s soul.

If the Story Girl laughed at Peter the mills of the gods ground out his revenge for him in mid-afternoon. Felicity, having used up all the available cooking materials in the house, had to stop perforce; and she now determined to stuff two new pincushions she had been making for her room. We heard her rummaging in the pantry as we sat on the cool, spruce-shadowed cellar door outside, where Uncle Roger was showing us how to make elderberry pop-guns. Presently she came out, frowning.

“Cecily, do you know where mother put the sawdust she emptied out of that old beaded pincushion of Grandmother King’s, after she had sifted the needles out of it? I thought it was in the tin box.”

“So it is,” said Cecily.

“It isn’t. There isn’t a speck of sawdust in that box.”

The Story Girl’s face wore a quite indescribable expression, compound of horror and shame. She need not have confessed. If she had but held her tongue the mystery of the sawdust’s disappearance might have forever remained a mystery. She WOULD have held her tongue, as she afterwards confided to me, if it had not been for a horrible fear which flashed into her mind that possibly sawdust puddings were not healthy for people to eat—especially if there might be needles in them—and that if any mischief had been done in that direction it was her duty to undo it if possible at any cost of ridicule to herself.

“Oh, Felicity,” she said, her voice expressing a very anguish of humiliation, “I—I—thought that stuff in the box was cornmeal and used it to make the pudding.”

Felicity and Cecily stared blankly at the Story Girl. We boys began to laugh, but were checked midway by Uncle Roger. He was rocking himself back and forth, with his hand pressed against his stomach.

“Oh,” he groaned, “I’ve been wondering what these sharp pains I’ve been feeling ever since dinner meant. I know now. I must have swallowed a needle—several needles, perhaps. I’m done for!”

The poor Story Girl went very white.

“Oh, Uncle Roger, could it be possible? You COULDN’T have swallowed a needle without knowing it. It would have stuck in your tongue or teeth.”

“I didn’t chew the pudding,” groaned Uncle Roger. “It was too tough—I just swallowed the chunks whole.”

He groaned and twisted and doubled himself up. But he overdid it. He was not as good an actor as the Story Girl. Felicity looked scornfully at him.

“Uncle Roger, you are not one bit sick,” she said deliberately. “You are just putting on.”

“Felicity, if I die from the effects of eating sawdust pudding, flavoured with needles, you’ll be sorry you ever said such a thing to your poor old uncle,” said Uncle Roger reproachfully. “Even if there were no needles in it, sixty-year-old sawdust can’t be good for my tummy. I daresay it wasn’t even clean.”

“Well, you know every one has to eat a peck of dirt in his life,” giggled Felicity.

“But nobody has to eat it all at once,” retorted Uncle Roger, with another groan. “Oh, Sara Stanley, it’s a thankful man I am that your Aunt Olivia is to be home to-night. You’d have me kilt entirely by another day. I believe you did it on purpose to have a story to tell.”

Uncle Roger hobbled off to the barn, still holding on to his stomach.

“Do you think he really feels sick?” asked the Story Girl anxiously.

“No, I don’t,” said Felicity. “You needn’t worry over him. There’s nothing the matter with him. I don’t believe there were any needles in that sawdust. Mother sifted it very carefully.”

“I know a story about a man whose son swallowed a mouse,” said the Story Girl, who would probably have known a story and tried to tell it if she were being led to the stake. “And he ran and wakened up a very tired doctor just as he had got to sleep.

“‘Oh, doctor, my son has swallowed a mouse,’ he cried. ‘What shall I do?’

“‘Tell him to swallow a cat,’ roared the poor doctor, and slammed his door.

“Now, if Uncle Roger has swallowed any needles, maybe it would make it all right if he swallowed a pincushion.”

We all laughed. But Felicity soon grew sober.

“It seems awful to think of eating a sawdust pudding. How on earth did you make such a mistake?”

“It looked just like cornmeal,” said the Story Girl, going from white to red in her shame. “Well, I’m going to give up trying to cook, and stick to things I can do. And if ever one of you mentions sawdust pudding to me I’ll never tell you another story as long as I live.”

The threat was effectual. Never did we mention that unholy pudding. But the Story Girl could not so impose silence on the grown-ups, especially Uncle Roger. He tormented her for the rest of the summer. Never a breakfast did he sit down to, without gravely inquiring if they were sure there was no sawdust in the porridge. Not a tweak of rheumatism did he feel but he vowed it was due to a needle, travelling about his body. And Aunt Olivia was warned to label all the pincushions in the house. “Contents, sawdust; not intended for puddings.”

An August evening, calm, golden, dewless, can be very lovely. At sunset, Felicity, Cecily, and Sara Ray, Dan, Felix, and I were in the orchard, sitting on the cool grasses at the base of the Pulpit Stone. In the west was a field of crocus sky over which pale cloud blossoms were scattered.

Uncle Roger had gone to the station to meet the travellers, and the dining-room table was spread with a feast of fat things.

“It’s been a jolly week, take it all round,” said Felix, “but I’m glad the grown-ups are coming back to-night, especially Uncle Alec.”

“I wonder if they’ll bring us anything,” said Dan.

“I’m thinking long to hear all about the wedding,” said Felicity, who was braiding timothy stalks into a collar for Pat.

“You girls are always thinking about weddings and getting married,” said Dan contemptuously.

“We ain’t,” said Felicity indignantly. “I am NEVER going to get married. I think it is just horrid, so there!”

“I guess you think it would be a good deal horrider not to be,” said Dan.

“It depends on who you’re married to,” said Cecily gravely, seeing that Felicity disdained reply. “If you got a man like father it would be all right. But S’POSEN you got one like Andrew Ward? He’s so mean and cross to his wife that she tells him every day she wishes she’d never set eyes on him.”

“Perhaps that’s WHY he’s mean and cross,” said Felix.

“I tell you it isn’t always the man’s fault,” said Dan darkly. “When I get married I’ll be good to my wife, but I mean to be boss. When I open my mouth my word will be law.”

“If your word is as big as your mouth I guess it will be,” said Felicity cruelly.

“I pity the man who gets you, Felicity King, that’s all,” retorted Dan.

“Now, don’t fight,” implored Cecily.

“Who’s fighting?” demanded Dan. “Felicity thinks she can say anything she likes to me, but I’ll show her different.”

Probably, in spite of Cecily’s efforts, a bitter spat would have resulted between Dan and Felicity, had not a diversion been effected at that moment by the Story Girl, who came slowly down Uncle Stephen’s Walk.

“Just look how the Story Girl has got herself up!” said Felicity. “Why, she’s no more than decent!”

The Story Girl was barefooted and barearmed, having rolled the sleeves of her pink gingham up to her shoulders. Around her waist was twisted a girdle of the blood-red roses that bloomed in Aunt Olivia’s garden; on her sleek curls she wore a chaplet of them; and her hands were full of them.

She paused under the outmost tree, in a golden-green gloom, and laughed at us over a big branch. Her wild, subtle, nameless charm clothed her as with a garment. We always remembered the picture she made there; and in later days when we read Tennyson’s poems at a college desk, we knew exactly how an oread, peering through the green leaves on some haunted knoll of many fountained Ida, must look.

“Felicity,” said the Story Girl reproachfully, “what have you been doing to Peter? He’s up there sulking in the granary, and he won’t come down, and he says it’s your fault. You must have hurt his feelings dreadfully.”

“I don’t know about his feelings,” said Felicity, with an angry toss of her shining head, “but I guess I made his ears tingle all right. I boxed them both good and hard.”

“Oh, Felicity! What for?”

“Well, he tried to kiss me, that’s what for!” said Felicity, turning very red. “As if I would let a hired boy kiss me! I guess Master Peter won’t try anything like that again in a hurry.”

The Story Girl came out of her shadows and sat down beside us on the grass.

“Well, in that case,” she said gravely, “I think you did right to slap his ears—not because he is a hired boy, but because it would be impertinent in ANY boy. But talking of kissing makes me think of a story I found in Aunt Olivia’s scrapbook the other day. Wouldn’t you like to hear it? It is called, ‘How Kissing Was Discovered.’”

“Wasn’t kissing always discovered?” asked Dan.

“Not according to this story. It was just discovered accidentally.”

“Well, let’s hear about it,” said Felix, “although I think kissing’s awful silly, and it wouldn’t have mattered much if it hadn’t ever been discovered.”

The Story Girl scattered her roses around her on the grass, and clasped her slim hands over her knees. Gazing dreamily afar at the tinted sky between the apple trees, as if she were looking back to the merry days of the world’s gay youth, she began, her voice giving to the words and fancies of the old tale the delicacy of hoar frost and the crystal sparkle of dew.

“It happened long, long ago in Greece—where so many other beautiful things happened. Before that, nobody had ever heard of kissing. And then it was just discovered in the twinkling of an eye. And a man wrote it down and the account has been preserved ever since.

“There was a young shepherd named Glaucon—a very handsome young shepherd—who lived in a little village called Thebes. It became a very great and famous city afterwards, but at this time it was only a little village, very quiet and simple. Too quiet for Glaucon’s liking. He grew tired of it, and he thought he would like to go away from home and see something of the world. So he took his knapsack and his shepherd’s crook, and wandered away until he came to Thessaly. That is the land of the gods’ hill, you know. The name of the hill was Olympus. But it has nothing to do with this story. This happened on another mountain—Mount Pelion.

“Glaucon hired himself to a wealthy man who had a great many sheep. And every day Glaucon had to lead the sheep up to pasture on Mount Pelion, and watch them while they ate. There was nothing else to do, and he would have found the time very long, if he had not been able to play on a flute. So he played very often and very beautifully, as he sat under the trees and watched the wonderful blue sea afar off, and thought about Aglaia.

“Aglaia was his master’s daughter. She was so sweet and beautiful that Glaucon fell in love with her the very moment he first saw her; and when he was not playing his flute on the mountain he was thinking about Aglaia, and dreaming that some day he might have flocks of his own, and a dear little cottage down in the valley where he and Aglaia might live.

“Aglaia had fallen in love with Glaucon just as he had with her. But she never let him suspect it for ever so long. He did not know how often she would steal up the mountain and hide behind the rocks near where the sheep pastured, to listen to Glaucon’s beautiful music. It was very lovely music, because he was always thinking of Aglaia while he played, though he little dreamed how near him she often was.

“But after awhile Glaucon found out that Aglaia loved him, and everything was well. Nowadays I suppose a wealthy man like Aglaia’s father wouldn’t be willing to let his daughter marry a hired man; but this was in the Golden Age, you know, when nothing like that mattered at all.

“After that, almost every day Aglaia would go up the mountain and sit beside Glaucon, as he watched the flocks and played on his flute. But he did not play as much as he used to, because he liked better to talk with Aglaia. And in the evening they would lead the sheep home together.

“One day Aglaia went up the mountain by a new way, and she came to a little brook. Something was sparkling very brightly among its pebbles. Aglaia picked it up, and it was the most beautiful little stone that she had ever seen. It was only as large as a pea, but it glittered and flashed in the sunlight with every colour of the rainbow. Aglaia was so delighted with it that she resolved to take it as a present to Glaucon.

“But all at once she heard a stamping of hoofs behind her, and when she turned she almost died from fright. For there was the great god, Pan, and he was a very terrible object, looking quite as much like a goat as a man. The gods were not all beautiful, you know. And, beautiful or not, nobody ever wanted to meet them face to face.

“‘Give that stone to me,’ said Pan, holding out his hand.

“But Aglaia, though she was frightened, would not give him the stone.

“‘I want it for Glaucon,’ she said.

“‘I want it for one of my wood nymphs,’ said Pan, ‘and I must have it.’

“He advanced threateningly, but Aglaia ran as hard as she could up the mountain. If she could only reach Glaucon he would protect her. Pan followed her, clattering and bellowing terribly, but in a few minutes she rushed into Glaucon’s arms.

“The dreadful sight of Pan and the still more dreadful noise he made, so frightened the sheep that they fled in all directions. But Glaucon was not afraid at all, because Pan was the god of shepherds, and was bound to grant any prayer a good shepherd, who always did his duty, might make. If Glaucon had NOT been a good shepherd dear knows what would have happened to him and Aglaia. But he was; and when he begged Pan to go away and not frighten Aglaia any more, Pan had to go, grumbling a good deal—and Pan’s grumblings had a very ugly sound. But still he WENT, and that was the main thing.

“‘Now, dearest, what is all this trouble about?’ asked Glaucon; and Aglaia told him the story.

“‘But where is the beautiful stone?’ he asked, when she had finished. ‘Didst thou drop it in thy alarm?’

“No, indeed! Aglaia had done nothing of the sort. When she began to run, she had popped it into her mouth, and there it was still, quite safe. Now she poked it out between her red lips, where it glittered in the sunlight.

“‘Take it,’ she whispered.

“The question was—how was he to take it? Both of Aglaia’s arms were held fast to her sides by Glaucon’s arms; and if he loosened his clasp ever so little he was afraid she would fall, so weak and trembling was she from her dreadful fright. Then Glaucon had a brilliant idea. He would take the beautiful stone from Aglaia’s lips with his own lips.

“He bent over until his lips touched hers—and THEN, he forgot all about the beautiful pebble and so did Aglaia. Kissing was discovered!

“What a yarn!” said Dan, drawing a long breath, when we had come to ourselves and discovered that we were really sitting in a dewy Prince Edward Island orchard instead of watching two lovers on a mountain in Thessaly in the Golden Age. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Of course, we know it wasn’t really true,” said Felicity.

“Well, I don’t know,” said the Story Girl thoughtfully. “I think there are two kinds of true things—true things that ARE, and true things that are NOT, but MIGHT be.”

“I don’t believe there’s any but the one kind of trueness,” said Felicity. “And anyway, this story couldn’t be true. You know there was no such thing as a god Pan.”

“How do you know what there might have been in the Golden Age?” asked the Story Girl.

Which was, indeed, an unanswerable question for Felicity.

“I wonder what became of the beautiful stone?” said Cecily.

“Likely Aglaia swallowed it,” said Felix practically.

“Did Glaucon and Aglaia ever get married?” asked Sara Ray.

“The story doesn’t say. It stops just there,” said the Story Girl. “But of course they did. I will tell you what I think. I don’t think Aglaia swallowed the stone. I think it just fell to the ground; and after awhile they found it, and it turned out to be of such value that Glaucon could buy all the flocks and herds in the valley, and the sweetest cottage; and he and Aglaia were married right away.”

“But you only THINK that,” said Sara Ray. “I’d like to be really sure that was what happened.”

“Oh, bother, none of it happened,” said Dan. “I believed it while the Story Girl was telling it, but I don’t now. Isn’t that wheels?”

Wheels it was. Two wagons were driving up the lane. We rushed to the house—and there were Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet and Aunt Olivia! The excitement was quite tremendous. Every body talked and laughed at once, and it was not until we were all seated around the supper table that conversation grew coherent. What laughter and questioning and telling of tales followed, what smiles and bright eyes and glad voices. And through it all, the blissful purrs of Paddy, who sat on the window sill behind the Story Girl, resounded through the din like Andrew McPherson’s bass—“just a bur-r-r-r the hale time.”

“Well, I’m thankful to be home again,” said Aunt Janet, beaming on us. “We had a real nice time, and Edward’s folks were as kind as could be. But give me home for a steady thing. How has everything gone? How did the children behave, Roger?”

“Like models,” said Uncle Roger. “They were as good as gold most of the days.”

There were times when one couldn’t help liking Uncle Roger.

“I’ve got to go and begin stumping out the elderberry pasture this afternoon,” said Peter dolefully. “I tell you it’s a tough job. Mr. Roger might wait for cool weather before he sets people to stumping out elderberries, and that’s a fact.”

“Why don’t you tell him so?” asked Dan.

“It ain’t my business to tell him things,” retorted Peter. “I’m hired to do what I’m told, and I do it. But I can have my own opinion all the same. It’s going to be a broiling hot day.”

We were all in the orchard, except Felix, who had gone to the post-office. It was the forenoon of an August Saturday. Cecily and Sara Ray, who had come up to spend the day with us—her mother having gone to town—were eating timothy roots. Bertha Lawrence, a Charlottetown girl, who had visited Kitty Marr in June, and had gone to school one day with her, had eaten timothy roots, affecting to consider them great delicacies. The fad was at once taken up by the Carlisle schoolgirls. Timothy roots quite ousted “sours” and young raspberry sprouts, both of which had the real merit of being quite toothsome, while timothy roots were tough and tasteless. But timothy roots were fashionable, therefore timothy roots must be eaten. Pecks of them must have been devoured in Carlisle that summer.

Pat was there also, padding about from one to the other on his black paws, giving us friendly pokes and rubs. We all made much of him except Felicity, who would not take any notice of him because he was the Story Girl’s cat.

We boys were sprawling on the grass. Our morning chores were done and the day was before us. We should have been feeling very comfortable and happy, but, as a matter of fact, we were not particularly so.

The Story Girl was sitting on the mint beside the well-house, weaving herself a wreath of buttercups. Felicity was sipping from the cup of clouded blue with an overdone air of unconcern. Each was acutely and miserably conscious of the other’s presence, and each was desirous of convincing the rest of us that the other was less than nothing to her. Felicity could not succeed. The Story Girl managed it better. If it had not been for the fact that in all our foregatherings she was careful to sit as far from Felicity as possible, we might have been deceived.

We had not passed a very pleasant week. Felicity and the Story Girl had not been “speaking” to each other, and consequently there had been something rotten in the state of Denmark. An air of restraint was over all our games and conversations.

On the preceding Monday Felicity and the Story Girl had quarrelled over something. What the cause of the quarrel was I cannot tell because I never knew. It remained a “dead secret” between the parties of the first and second part forever. But it was more bitter than the general run of their tiffs, and the consequences were apparent to all. They had not spoken to each other since.

This was not because the rancour of either lasted so long. On the contrary it passed speedily away, not even one low descending sun going down on their wrath. But dignity remained to be considered. Neither would “speak first,” and each obstinately declared that she would not speak first, no, not in a hundred years. Neither argument, entreaty, nor expostulation had any effect on those two stubborn girls, nor yet the tears of sweet Cecily, who cried every night about it, and mingled in her pure little prayers fervent petitions that Felicity and the Story Girl might make up.

“I don’t know where you expect to go when you die, Felicity,” she said tearfully, “if you don’t forgive people.”

“I have forgiven her,” was Felicity’s answer, “but I am not going to speak first for all that.”

“It’s very wrong, and, more than that, it’s so uncomfortable,” complained Cecily. “It spoils everything.”

“Were they ever like this before?” I asked Cecily, as we talked the matter over privately in Uncle Stephen’s Walk.

“Never for so long,” said Cecily. “They had a spell like this last summer, and one the summer before, but they only lasted a couple of days.”

“And who spoke first?”

“Oh, the Story Girl. She got excited about something and spoke to Felicity before she thought, and then it was all right. But I’m afraid it isn’t going to be like that this time. Don’t you notice how careful the Story Girl is not to get excited? That is such a bad sign.”

“We’ve just got to think up something that will excite her, that’s all,” I said.

“I’m—I’m praying about it,” said Cecily in a low voice, her tear-wet lashes trembling against her pale, round cheeks. “Do you suppose it will do any good, Bev?”

“Very likely,” I assured her. “Remember Sara Ray and the money. That came from praying.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Cecily tremulously. “Dan said it was no use for me to bother praying about it. He said if they COULDN’T speak God might do something, but when they just WOULDN’T it wasn’t likely He would interfere. Dan does say such queer things. I’m so afraid he’s going to grow up just like Uncle Robert Ward, who never goes to church, and doesn’t believe more than half the Bible is true.”

“Which half does he believe is true?” I inquired with unholy curiosity.

“Oh, just the nice parts. He says there’s a heaven all right, but no—no—HELL. I don’t want Dan to grow up like that. It isn’t respectable. And you wouldn’t want all kinds of people crowding heaven, now, would you?”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” I agreed, thinking of Billy Robinson.

“Of course, I can’t help feeling sorry for those who have to go to THE OTHER PLACE,” said Cecily compassionately. “But I suppose they wouldn’t be very comfortable in heaven either. They wouldn’t feel at home. Andrew Marr said a simply dreadful thing about THE OTHER PLACE one night last fall, when Felicity and I were down to see Kitty, and they were burning the potato stalks. He said he believed THE OTHER PLACE must be lots more interesting than heaven because fires were such jolly things. Now, did you ever hear the like?”

“I guess it depends a good deal on whether you’re inside or outside the fires,” I said.

“Oh, Andrew didn’t really mean it, of course. He just said it to sound smart and make us stare. The Marrs are all like that. But anyhow, I’m going to keep on praying that something will happen to excite the Story Girl. I don’t believe there is any use in praying that Felicity will speak first, because I am sure she won’t.”

“But don’t you suppose God could make her?” I said, feeling that it wasn’t quite fair that the Story Girl should always have to speak first. If she had spoken first the other times it was surely Felicity’s turn this time.

“Well, I believe it would puzzle Him,” said Cecily, out of the depths of her experience with Felicity.

Peter, as was to be expected, took Felicity’s part, and said the Story Girl ought to speak first because she was the oldest. That, he said, had always been his Aunt Jane’s rule.

Sara Ray thought Felicity should speak first, because the Story Girl was half an orphan.

Felix tried to make peace between them, and met the usual fate of all peacemakers. The Story Girl loftily told him that he was too young to understand, and Felicity said that fat boys should mind their own business. After that, Felix declared it would serve Felicity right if the Story Girl never spoke to her again.

Dan had no patience with either of the girls, especially Felicity.

“What they both want is a right good spanking,” he said.

If only a spanking would mend the matter it was not likely it would ever be mended. Both Felicity and the Story Girl were rather too old to be spanked, and, if they had not been, none of the grown-ups would have thought it worth while to administer so desperate a remedy for what they considered so insignificant a trouble. With the usual levity of grown-ups, they regarded the coldness between the girls as a subject of mirth and jest, and recked not that it was freezing the genial current of our youthful souls, and blighting hours that should have been fair pages in our book of days.

The Story Girl finished her wreath and put it on. The buttercups drooped over her high, white brow and played peep with her glowing eyes. A dreamy smile hovered around her poppy-red mouth—a significant smile which, to those of us skilled in its interpretation, betokened the sentence which soon came.

“I know a story about a man who always had his own opinion—”

The Story Girl got no further. We never heard the story of the man who always had his own opinion. Felix came tearing up the lane, with a newspaper in his hand. When a boy as fat as Felix runs at full speed on a broiling August forenoon, he has something to run for—as Felicity remarked.

“He must have got some bad news at the office,” said Sara Ray.

“Oh, I hope nothing has happened to father,” I exclaimed, springing anxiously to my feet, a sick, horrible feeling of fear running over me like a cool, rippling wave.

“It’s just as likely to be good news he is running for as bad,” said the Story Girl, who was no believer in meeting trouble half way.

“He wouldn’t be running so fast for good news,” said Dan cynically.

We were not left long in doubt. The orchard gate flew open and Felix was among us. One glimpse of his face told us that he was no bearer of glad tidings. He had been running hard and should have been rubicund. Instead, he was “as pale as are the dead.” I could not have asked him what was the matter had my life depended on it. It was Felicity who demanded impatiently of my shaking, voiceless brother:

“Felix King, what has scared you?”

Felix held out the newspaper—it was the Charlottetown 企业日报.

“It’s there,” he gasped. “Look—read—oh, do you—think it’s—true? The—end of—the world—is coming to-morrow—at two—o’clock—in the afternoon!”

Crash! Felicity had dropped the cup of clouded blue, which had passed unscathed through so many changing years, and now at last lay shattered on the stone of the well curb. At any other time we should all have been aghast over such a catastrophe, but it passed unnoticed now. What mattered it that all the cups in the world be broken to-day if the crack o’ doom must sound to-morrow?

“Oh, Sara Stanley, do you believe it? DO you?” gasped Felicity, clutching the Story Girl’s hand. Cecily’s prayer had been answered. Excitement had come with a vengeance, and under its stress Felicity had spoken first. But this, like the breaking of the cup, had no significance for us at the moment.

The Story Girl snatched the paper and read the announcement to a group on which sudden, tense silence had fallen. Under a sensational headline, “The Last Trump will sound at Two O’clock To-morrow,” was a paragraph to the effect that the leader of a certain noted sect in the United States had predicted that August twelfth would be the Judgment Day, and that all his numerous followers were preparing for the dread event by prayer, fasting, and the making of appropriate white garments for ascension robes.

I laugh at the remembrance now—until I recall the real horror of fear that enwrapped us in that sunny orchard that August morning of long ago; and then I laugh no more. We were only children, be it remembered, with a very firm and simple faith that grown people knew much more than we did, and a rooted conviction that whatever you read in a newspaper must be true. If the 企业日报 said that August twelfth was to be the Judgment Day how were you going to get around it?

“Do you believe it, Sara Stanley?” persisted Felicity. “DO you?”

“No—no, I don’t believe a word of it,” said the Story Girl.

But for once her voice failed to carry conviction—or, rather, it carried conviction of the very opposite kind. It was borne in upon our miserable minds that if the Story Girl did not altogether believe it was true she believed it might be true; and the possibility was almost as dreadful as the certainty.

“It CAN’T be true,” said Sara Ray, seeking refuge, as usual, in tears. “Why, everything looks just the same. Things COULDN’T look the same if the Judgment Day was going to be to-morrow.”

“But that’s just the way it’s to come,” I said uncomfortably. “It tells you in the Bible. It’s to come just like a thief in the night.”

“But it tells you another thing in the Bible, too,” said Cecily eagerly. “It says nobody knows when the Judgment Day is to come—not even the angels in heaven. Now, if the angels in heaven don’t know it, do you suppose the editor of the 企业 can know it—and him a Grit, too?”

“I guess he knows as much about it as a Tory would,” retorted the Story Girl. Uncle Roger was a Liberal and Uncle Alec a Conservative, and the girls held fast to the political traditions of their respective households. “But it isn’t really the 企业 editor at all who is saying it—it’s a man in the States who claims to be a prophet. If he IS a prophet perhaps he has found out somehow.”

“And it’s in the paper, too, and that’s printed as well as the Bible,” said Dan.

“Well, I’m going to depend on the Bible,” said Cecily. “I don’t believe it’s the Judgment Day to-morrow—but I’m scared, for all that,” she added piteously.

That was exactly the position of us all. As in the case of the bell-ringing ghost, we did not believe but we trembled.

“Nobody might have known when the Bible was written,” said Dan, “but maybe somebody knows now. Why, the Bible was written thousands of years ago, and that paper was printed this very morning. There’s been time to find out ever so much more.”

“I want to do so many things,” said the Story Girl, plucking off her crown of buttercup gold with a tragic gesture, “but if it’s the Judgment Day to-morrow I won’t have time to do any of them.”

“It can’t be much worse than dying, I s’pose,” said Felix, grasping at any straw of comfort.

“I’m awful glad I’ve got into the habit of going to church and Sunday School this summer,” said Peter very soberly. “I wish I’d made up my mind before this whether to be a Presbyterian or a Methodist. Do you s’pose it’s too late now?”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” said Cecily earnestly. “If—if you’re a Christian, Peter, that is all that’s necessary.”

“But it’s too late for that,” said Peter miserably. “I can’t turn into a Christian between this and two o’clock to-morrow. I’ll just have to be satisfied with making up my mind to be a Presbyterian or a Methodist. I wanted to wait till I got old enough to make out what was the difference between them, but I’ll have to chance it now. I guess I’ll be a Presbyterian, ‘cause I want to be like the rest of you. Yes, I’ll be a Presbyterian.”

“I know a story about Judy Pineau and the word Presbyterian,” said the Story Girl, “but I can’t tell it now. If to-morrow isn’t the Judgment Day I’ll tell it Monday.”

“If I had known that to-morrow might be the Judgment Day I wouldn’t have quarrelled with you last Monday, Sara Stanley, or been so horrid and sulky all the week. Indeed I wouldn’t,” said Felicity, with very unusual humility.

Ah, Felicity! We were all, in the depths of our pitiful little souls, reviewing the innumerable things we would or would not have done “if we had known.” What a black and endless list they made—those sins of omission and commission that rushed accusingly across our young memories! For us the leaves of the Book of Judgment were already opened; and we stood at the bar of our own consciences, than which for youth or eld, there can be no more dread tribunal. I thought of all the evil deeds of my short life—of pinching Felix to make him cry out at family prayers, of playing truant from Sunday School and going fishing one day, of a certain fib—no, no away from this awful hour with all such euphonious evasions—of a LIE I had once told, of many a selfish and unkind word and thought and action. And to-morrow might be the great and terrible day of the last accounting! Oh, if I had only been a better boy!

“The quarrel was as much my fault as yours, Felicity,” said the Story Girl, putting her arm around Felicity. “We can’t undo it now. But if to-morrow isn’t the Judgment Day we must be careful never to quarrel again. Oh, I wish father was here.”

“He will be,” said Cecily. “If it’s the Judgment Day for Prince Edward Island it will be for Europe, too.”

“I wish we could just KNOW whether what the paper says is true or not,” said Felix desperately. “It seems to me I could brace up if I just KNEW.”

But to whom could we appeal? Uncle Alec was away and would not be back until late that night. Neither Aunt Janet nor Uncle Roger were people to whom we cared to apply in such a crisis. We were afraid of the Judgment Day; but we were almost equally afraid of being laughed at. How about Aunt Olivia?

“No, Aunt Olivia has gone to bed with a sick headache and mustn’t be disturbed,” said the Story Girl. “She said I must get dinner ready, because there was plenty of cold meat, and nothing to do but boil the potatoes and peas, and set the table. I don’t know how I can put my thoughts into it when the Judgment Day may be to-morrow. Besides, what is the good of asking the grown-ups? They don’t know anything more about this than we do.”

“But if they’d just SAY they didn’t believe it, it would be a sort of comfort,” said Cecily.

“I suppose the minister would know, but he’s away on his vacation” said Felicity. “Anyhow, I’ll go and ask mother what she thinks of it.”

Felicity picked up the 企业 and betook herself to the house. We awaited her return in dire suspense.

“Well, what does she say?” asked Cecily tremulously.

“She said, ‘Run away and don’t bother me. I haven’t any time for your nonsense.’” responded Felicity in an injured tone. “And I said, ‘But, ma, the paper SAYS to-morrow is the Judgment Day,’ and ma just said ‘Judgment Fiddlesticks!’”

“Well, that’s kind of comforting,” said Peter. “She can’t put any faith in it, or she’d be more worked up.”

“If it only wasn’t PRINTED!” said Dan gloomily.

“Let’s all go over and ask Uncle Roger,” said Felix desperately.

That we should make Uncle Roger a court of last resort indicated all too clearly the state of our minds. But we went. Uncle Roger was in his barn-yard, hitching his black mare into the buggy. His copy of the 企业 was sticking out of his pocket. He looked, as we saw with sinking hearts, unusually grave and preoccupied. There was not a glimmer of a smile about his face.

“You ask him,” said Felicity, nudging the Story Girl.

“Uncle Roger,” said the Story Girl, the golden notes of her voice threaded with fear and appeal, “the 企业 says that to-morrow is the Judgment Day? IS it? Do YOU think it is?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Uncle Roger gravely. “The 企业 is always very careful to print only reliable news.”

“But mother doesn’t believe it,” cried Felicity.

Uncle Roger shook his head.

“That is just the trouble,” he said. “People won’t believe it till it’s too late. I’m going straight to Markdale to pay a man there some money I owe him, and after dinner I’m going to Summerside to buy me a new suit. My old one is too shabby for the Judgment Day.”

He got into his buggy and drove away, leaving eight distracted mortals behind him.

“Well, I suppose that settles it,” said Peter, in despairing tone.

“Is there anything we can do to PREPARE?” asked Cecily.

“I wish I had a white dress like you girls,” sobbed Sara Ray. “But I haven’t, and it’s too late to get one. Oh, I wish I had minded what ma said better. I wouldn’t have disobeyed her so often if I’d thought the Judgment Day was so near. When I go home I’m going to tell her about going to the magic lantern show.”

“I’m not sure that Uncle Roger meant what he said,” remarked the Story Girl. “I couldn’t get a look into his eyes. If he was trying to hoax us there would have been a twinkle in them. He can never help that. You know he would think it a great joke to frighten us like this. It’s really dreadful to have no grown-ups you can depend on.”

“We could depend on father if he was here,” said Dan stoutly. “HE’D tell us the truth.”

“He would tell us what he THOUGHT was true, Dan, but he couldn’t KNOW. He’s not such a well-educated man as the editor of the 企业. No, there’s nothing to do but wait and see.”

“Let us go into the house and read just what the Bible does say about it,” suggested Cecily.

We crept in carefully, lest we disturb Aunt Olivia, and Cecily found and read the significant portion of Holy Writ. There was little comfort for us in that vivid and terrible picture.

“Well,” said the Story Girl finally. “I must go and get the potatoes ready. I suppose they must be boiled even if it is the Judgment Day to-morrow. But I don’t believe it is.”

“And I’ve got to go and stump elderberries,” said Peter. “I don’t see how I can do it—go away back there alone. I’ll feel scared to death the whole time.”

“Tell Uncle Roger that, and say if to-morrow is the end of the world that there is no good in stumping any more fields,” I suggested.

“Yes, and if he lets you off then we’ll know he was in earnest,” chimed in Cecily. “But if he still says you must go that’ll be a sign he doesn’t believe it.”

Leaving the Story Girl and Peter to peel their potatoes, the rest of us went home, where Aunt Janet, who had gone to the well and found the fragments of the old blue cup, gave poor Felicity a bitter scolding about it. But Felicity bore it very patiently—nay, more, she seemed to delight in it.

“Ma can’t believe to-morrow is the last day, or she wouldn’t scold like that,” she told us; and this comforted us until after dinner, when the Story Girl and Peter came over and told us that Uncle Roger had really gone to Summerside. Then we plunged down into fear and wretchedness again.

“But he said I must go and stump elderberries just the same” said Peter. “He said it might NOT be the Judgment Day to-morrow, though he believed it was, and it would keep me out of mischief. But I just can’t stand it back there alone. Some of you fellows must come with me. I don’t want you to work, but just for company.”

It was finally decided that Dan and Felix should go. I wanted to go also, but the girls protested.

“YOU must stay and keep us cheered up,” implored Felicity. “I just don’t know how I’m ever going to put in the afternoon. I promised Kitty Marr that I’d go down and spend it with her, but I can’t now. And I can’t knit any at my lace. I’d just keep thinking, ‘What is the use? Perhaps it’ll all be burned up to-morrow.’”

So I stayed with the girls, and a miserable afternoon we had of it. The Story Girl again and again declared that she “didn’t believe it,” but when we asked her to tell a story, she evaded it with a flimsy excuse. Cecily pestered Aunt Janet’s life out, asking repeatedly, “Ma, will you be washing Monday?” “Ma, will you be going to prayer meeting Tuesday night?” “Ma, will you be preserving raspberries next week?” and various similar questions. It was a huge comfort to her that Aunt Janet always said, “Yes,” or “Of course,” as if there could be no question about it.

Sara Ray cried until I wondered how one small head could contain all the tears she shed. But I do not believe she was half as much frightened as disappointed that she had no white dress. In mid-afternoon Cecily came downstairs with her forget-me-not jug in her hand—a dainty bit of china, wreathed with dark blue forget-me-nots, which Cecily prized highly, and in which she always kept her toothbrush.

“Sara, I am going to give you this jug,” she said solemnly.

Now, Sara had always coveted this particular jug. She stopped crying long enough to clutch it delightedly.

“Oh, Cecily, thank you. But are you sure you won’t want it back if to-morrow isn’t the Judgment Day?”

“No, it’s yours for good,” said Cecily, with the high, remote air of one to whom forget-me-not jugs and all such pomps and vanities of the world were as a tale that is told.

“Are you going to give any one your cherry vase?” asked Felicity, trying to speak indifferently. Felicity had never admired the forget-me-not jug, but she had always hankered after the cherry vase—an affair of white glass, with a cluster of red glass cherries and golden-green glass leaves on its side, which Aunt Olivia had given Cecily one Christmas.

“No, I’m not,” answered Cecily, with a change of tone.

“Oh, well, I don’t care,” said Felicity quickly. “Only, if to-morrow is the last day, the cherry vase won’t be much use to you.”

“I guess it will be as much use to me as to any one else,” said Cecily indignantly. She had sacrificed her dear forget-me-not jug to satisfy some pang of conscience, or propitiate some threatening fate, but surrender her precious cherry vase she could not and would not. Felicity needn’t be giving any hints!

With the gathering shades of night our plight became pitiful. In the daylight, surrounded by homely, familiar sights and sounds, it was not so difficult to fortify our souls with a cheering incredulity. But now, in this time of shadows, dread belief clutched us and wrung us with terror. If there had been one wise older friend to tell us, in serious fashion, that we need not be afraid, that the 企业 paragraph was naught save the idle report of a deluded fanatic, it would have been well for us. But there was not. Our grown-ups, instead, considered our terror an exquisite jest. At that very moment, Aunt Olivia, who had recovered from her headache, and Aunt Janet were laughing in the kitchen over the state the children were in because they were afraid the end of the world was close at hand. Aunt Janet’s throaty gurgle and Aunt Olivia’s trilling mirth floated out through the open window.

“Perhaps they’ll laugh on the other side of their faces to-morrow,” said Dan, with gloomy satisfaction.

We were sitting on the cellar hatch, watching what might be our last sunset o’er the dark hills of time. Peter was with us. It was his last Sunday to go home, but he had elected to remain.

“If to-morrow is the Judgment Day I want to be with you fellows,” he said.

Sara Ray had also yearned to stay, but could not because her mother had told her she must be home before dark.

“Never mind, Sara,” comforted Cecily. “It’s not to be till two o’clock to-morrow, so you’ll have plenty of time to get up here before anything happens.”

“But there might be a mistake,” sobbed Sara. “It might be two o’clock to-night instead of to-morrow.”

It might, indeed. This was a new horror, which had not occurred to us.

“I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink to-night,” said Felix.

“The paper SAYS two o’clock to-morrow,” said Dan. “You needn’t worry, Sara.”

But Sara departed, weeping. She did not, however, forget to carry the forget-me-not jug with her. All things considered, her departure was a relief. Such a constantly tearful damsel was not a pleasant companion. Cecily and Felicity and the Story Girl did not cry. They were made of finer, firmer stuff. Dry-eyed, with such courage as they might, they faced whatever might be in store for them.

“I wonder where we’ll all be this time to-morrow night,” said Felix mournfully, as we watched the sunset between the dark fir boughs. It was an ominous sunset. The sun dropped down amid dark, livid clouds, that turned sullen shades of purple and fiery red behind him.

“I hope we’ll be all together, wherever we are,” said Cecily gently. “Nothing can be so very bad then.”

“I’m going to read the Bible all to-morrow forenoon,” said Peter.

When Aunt Olivia came out to go home the Story Girl asked her permission to stay all night with Felicity and Cecily. Aunt Olivia assented lightly, swinging her hat on her arm and including us all in a friendly smile. She looked very pretty, with her big blue eyes and warm-hued golden hair. We loved Aunt Olivia; but just now we resented her having laughed at us with Aunt Janet, and we refused to smile back.

“What a sulky, sulky lot of little people,” said Aunt Olivia, going away across the yard, holding her pretty dress up from the dewy grass.

Peter resolved to stay all night with us, too, not troubling himself about anybody’s permission. When we went to bed it was settling down for a stormy night, and the rain was streaming wetly on the roof, as if the world, like Sara Ray, were weeping because its end was so near. Nobody forgot or hurried over his prayers that night. We would dearly have loved to leave the candle burning, but Aunt Janet’s decree regarding this was as inexorable as any of Mede and Persia. Out the candle must go; and we lay there, quaking, with the wild rain streaming down on the roof above us, and the voices of the storm wailing through the writhing spruce trees.

Sunday morning broke, dull and gray. The rain had ceased, but the clouds hung dark and brooding above a world which, in its windless calm, following the spent storm-throe, seemed to us to be waiting “till judgment spoke the doom of fate.” We were all up early. None of us, it appeared, had slept well, and some of us not at all. The Story Girl had been among the latter, and she looked very pale and wan, with black shadows under her deep-set eyes. Peter, however, had slept soundly enough after twelve o’clock.

“When you’ve been stumping out elderberries all the afternoon it’ll take more than the Judgment Day to keep you awake all night,” he said. “But when I woke up this morning it was just awful. I’d forgot it for a moment, and then it all came back with a rush, and I was worse scared than before.”

Cecily was pale but brave. For the first time in years she had not put her hair up in curlers on Saturday night. It was brushed and braided with Puritan simplicity.

“If it’s the Judgment Day I don’t care whether my hair is curly or not,” she said.

“Well,” said Aunt Janet, when we all descended to the kitchen, “this is the first time you young ones have ever all got up without being called, and that’s a fact.”

At breakfast our appetites were poor. How could the grown-ups eat as they did? After breakfast and the necessary chores there was the forenoon to be lived through. Peter, true to his word, got out his Bible and began to read from the first chapter in Genesis.

“I won’t have time to read it all through, I s’pose,” he said, “but I’ll get along as far as I can.”

There was no preaching in Carlisle that day, and Sunday School was not till the evening. Cecily got out her Lesson Slip and studied the lesson conscientiously. The rest of us did not see how she could do it. We could not, that was very certain.

“If it isn’t the Judgment Day, I want to have the lesson learned,” she said, “and if it is I’ll feel I’ve done what was right. But I never found it so hard to remember the Golden Text before.”

The long dragging hours were hard to endure. We roamed restlessly about, and went to and fro—all save Peter, who still steadily read away at his Bible. He was through Genesis by eleven and beginning on Exodus.

“There’s a good deal of it I don’t understand,” he said, “but I read every word, and that’s the main thing. That story about Joseph and his brother was so int’resting I almost forgot about the Judgment Day.”

But the long drawn out dread was beginning to get on Dan’s nerves.

“If it is the Judgment Day,” he growled, as we went in to dinner, “I wish it’d hurry up and have it over.”

“Oh, Dan!” cried Felicity and Cecily together, in a chorus of horror. But the Story Girl looked as if she rather sympathized with Dan.

If we had eaten little at breakfast we could eat still less at dinner. After dinner the clouds rolled away, and the sun came joyously and gloriously out. This, we thought, was a good omen. Felicity opined that it wouldn’t have cleared up if it was the Judgment Day. Nevertheless, we dressed ourselves carefully, and the girls put on their white dresses.

Sara Ray came up, still crying, of course. She increased our uneasiness by saying that her mother believed the 企业 paragraph, and was afraid that the end of the world was really at hand.

“That’s why she let me come up,” she sobbed. “If she hadn’t been afraid I don’t believe she would have let me come up. But I’d have died if I couldn’t have come. And she wasn’t a bit cross when I told her I had gone to the magic lantern show. That’s an awful bad sign. I hadn’t a white dress, but I put on my white muslin apron with the frills.”

“That seems kind of queer,” said Felicity doubtfully. “You wouldn’t put on an apron to go to church, and so it doesn’t seem as if it was proper to put it on for Judgment Day either.”

“Well, it’s the best I could do,” said Sara disconsolately. “I wanted to have something white on. It’s just like a dress only it hasn’t sleeves.”

“Let’s go into the orchard and wait,” said the Story Girl. “It’s one o’clock now, so in another hour we’ll know the worst. We’ll leave the front door open, and we’ll hear the big clock when it strikes two.”

No better plan being suggested, we betook ourselves to the orchard, and sat on the boughs of Uncle Alec’s tree because the grass was wet. The world was beautiful and peaceful and green. Overhead was a dazzling blue sky, spotted with heaps of white cloud.

“Pshaw, I don’t believe there’s any fear of it being the last day,” said Dan, beginning a whistle out of sheer bravado.

“Well, don’t whistle on Sunday anyhow,” said Felicity severely.

“I don’t see a thing about Methodists or Presbyterians, as far as I’ve gone, and I’m most through Exodus,” said Peter suddenly. “When does it begin to tell about them?”

“There’s nothing about Methodists or Presbyterians in the Bible,” said Felicity scornfully.

Peter looked amazed.

“Well, how did they happen then?” he asked. “When did they begin to be?”

“I’ve often thought it such a strange thing that there isn’t a word about either of them in the Bible,” said Cecily. “Especially when it mentions Baptists—or at least one Baptist.”

“Well, anyhow,” said Peter, “even if it isn’t the Judgment Day I’m going to keep on reading the Bible until I’ve got clean through. I never thought it was such an int’resting book.”

“It sounds simply dreadful to hear you call the Bible an interesting book,” said Felicity, with a shudder at the sacrilege. “Why, you might be talking about ANY common book.”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” said Peter, crestfallen.

“The Bible IS an interesting book,” said the Story Girl, coming to Peter’s rescue. “And there are magnificent stories in it—yes, Felicity, MAGNIFICENT. If the world doesn’t come to an end I’ll tell you the story of Ruth next Sunday—or look here! I’ll tell it anyhow. That’s a promise. Wherever we are next Sunday I’ll tell you about Ruth.”

“Why, you wouldn’t tell stories in heaven,” said Cecily, in a very timid voice.

“Why not?” said the Story Girl, with a flash of her eyes. “Indeed I shall. I’ll tell stories as long as I’ve a tongue to talk with, or any one to listen.”

Ay, doubtless. That dauntless spirit would soar triumphantly above the wreck of matter and the crash of worlds, taking with it all its own wild sweetness and daring. Even the young-eyed cherubim, choiring on meadows of asphodel, might cease their harping for a time to listen to a tale of the vanished earth, told by that golden tongue. Some vague thought of this was in our minds as we looked at her; and somehow it comforted us. Not even the Judgment was so greatly to be feared if after it we were the SAME, our own precious little identities unchanged.

“It must be getting handy two,” said Cecily. “It seems as if we’d been waiting here for ever so much longer than an hour.”

Conversation languished. We watched and waited nervously. The moments dragged by, each seeming an hour. Would two o’clock never come and end the suspense? We all became very tense. Even Peter had to stop reading. Any unaccustomed sound or sight in the world about us struck on our taut senses like the trump of doom. A cloud passed over the sun and as the sudden shadow swept across the orchard we turned pale and trembled. A wagon rumbling over a plank bridge in the hollow made Sara Ray start up with a shriek. The slamming of a barn door over at Uncle Roger’s caused the cold perspiration to break out on our faces.

“I don’t believe it’s the Judgment Day,” said Felix, “and I never have believed it. But oh, I wish that clock would strike two.”

“Can’t you tell us a story to pass the time?” I entreated the Story Girl.

她摇了摇头。

“No, it would be no use to try. But if this isn’t the Judgment Day I’ll have a great one to tell of us being so scared.”

Pat presently came galloping up the orchard, carrying in his mouth a big field mouse, which, sitting down before us, he proceeded to devour, body and bones, afterwards licking his chops with great satisfaction.

“It can’t be the Judgment Day,” said Sara Ray, brightening up. “Paddy would never be eating mice if it was.”

“If that clock doesn’t soon strike two I shall go out of my seven senses,” declared Cecily with unusual vehemence.

“Time always seems long when you’re waiting,” said the Story Girl. “But it does seem as if we had been here more than an hour.”

“Maybe the clock struck and we didn’t hear it,” suggested Dan. “Somebody’d better go and see.”

“I’ll go,” said Cecily. “I suppose, even if anything happens, I’ll have time to get back to you.”

We watched her white-clad figure pass through the gate and enter the front door. A few minutes passed—or a few years—we could not have told which. Then Cecily came running at full speed back to us. But when she reached us she trembled so much that at first she could not speak.

“What is it? Is it past two?” implored the Story Girl.

“It’s—it’s four,” said Cecily with a gasp. “The old clock isn’t going. Mother forgot to wind it up last night and it stopped. But it’s four by the kitchen clock—so it isn’t the Judgment Day—and tea is ready—and mother says to come in.”

We looked at each other, realizing what our dread had been, now that it was lifted. It was not the Judgment Day. The world and life were still before us, with all their potent lure of years unknown.

“I’ll never believe anything I read in the papers again,” said Dan, rushing to the opposite extreme.

“I told you the Bible was more to be depended on than the newspapers,” said Cecily triumphantly.

Sara Ray and Peter and the Story Girl went home, and we went in to tea with royal appetites. Afterwards, as we dressed for Sunday School upstairs, our spirits carried us away to such an extent that Aunt Janet had to come twice to the foot of the stairs and inquire severely, “Children, have you forgotten what day this is?”

“Isn’t it nice that we’re going to live a spell longer in this nice world?” said Felix, as we walked down the hill.

“Yes, and Felicity and the Story Girl are speaking again,” said Cecily happily.

“And Felicity DID speak first,” I said.

“Yes, but it took the Judgment Day to make her. I wish,” added Cecily with a sigh, “that I hadn’t been in quite such a hurry giving away my forget-me-not jug.”

“And I wish I hadn’t been in such a hurry deciding I’d be a Presbyterian,” said Peter.

“Well, it’s not too late for that,” said Dan. “You can change your mind now.”

“No, sir,” said Peter with a flash of spirit, “I ain’t one of the kind that says they’ll be something just because they’re scared, and when the scare is over go back on it. I said I’d be Presbyterian and I mean to stick to it.”

“You said you knew a story that had something to do with Presbyterians,” I said to the Story Girl. “Tell us it now.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t the right kind of story to tell on Sunday,” she replied. “But I’ll tell it to-morrow morning.”

Accordingly, we heard it the next morning in the orchard.

“Long ago, when Judy Pineau was young,” said the Story Girl, “she was hired with Mrs. Elder Frewen—the first Mrs. Elder Frewen. Mrs. Frewen had been a school-teacher, and she was very particular as to how people talked, and the grammar they used. And she didn’t like anything but refined words. One very hot day she heard Judy Pineau say she was ‘all in a sweat.’ Mrs. Frewen was greatly shocked, and said, ‘Judy, you shouldn’t say that. It’s horses that sweat. You should say you are in a perspiration.’ Well, Judy promised she’d remember, because she liked Mrs. Frewen and was anxious to please her. Not long afterwards Judy was scrubbing the kitchen floor one morning, and when Mrs. Frewen came in Judy looked up and said, quite proud over using the right word, ‘Oh, Mees Frewen, ain’t it awful hot? I declare I’m all in a Presbyterian.’”

August went out and September came in. Harvest was ended; and though summer was not yet gone, her face was turned westering. The asters lettered her retreating footsteps in a purple script, and over the hills and valleys hung a faint blue smoke, as if Nature were worshipping at her woodland altar. The apples began to burn red on the bending boughs; crickets sang day and night; squirrels chattered secrets of Polichinelle in the spruces; the sunshine was as thick and yellow as molten gold; school opened, and we small denizens of the hill farms lived happy days of harmless work and necessary play, closing in nights of peaceful, undisturbed slumber under a roof watched over by autumnal stars.

At least, our slumbers were peaceful and undisturbed until our orgy of dreaming began.

“I would really like to know what especial kind of deviltry you young fry are up to this time,” said Uncle Roger one evening, as he passed through the orchard with his gun on his shoulder, bound for the swamp.

We were sitting in a circle before the Pulpit Stone, each writing diligently in an exercise book, and eating the Rev. Mr. Scott’s plums, which always reached their prime of juicy, golden-green flesh and bloomy blue skin in September. The Rev. Mr. Scott was dead and gone, but those plums certainly kept his memory green, as his forgotten sermons could never have done.

“Oh,” said Felicity in a shocked tone, when Uncle Roger had passed by, “Uncle Roger SWORE.”

“Oh, no, he didn’t,” said the Story Girl quickly. “‘Deviltry’ isn’t swearing at all. It only means extra bad mischief.”

“Well, it’s not a very nice word, anyhow,” said Felicity.

“No, it isn’t,” agreed the Story Girl with a regretful sigh. “It’s very expressive, but it isn’t nice. That is the way with so many words. They’re expressive, but they’re not nice, and so a girl can’t use them.”

The Story Girl sighed again. She loved expressive words, and treasured them as some girls might have treasured jewels. To her, they were as lustrous pearls, threaded on the crimson cord of a vivid fancy. When she met with a new one she uttered it over and over to herself in solitude, weighing it, caressing it, infusing it with the radiance of her voice, making it her own in all its possibilities for ever.

“Well, anyhow, it isn’t a suitable word in this case,” insisted Felicity. “We are not up to any dev—any extra bad mischief. Writing down one’s dreams isn’t mischief at all.”

Certainly it wasn’t. Surely not even the straitest sect of the grown-ups could call it so. If writing down your dreams, with agonizing care as to composition and spelling—for who knew that the eyes of generations unborn might not read the record?—were not a harmless amusement, could anything be called so? I trow not.

We had been at it for a fortnight, and during that time we only lived to have dreams and write them down. The Story Girl had originated the idea one evening in the rustling, rain-wet ways of the spruce wood, where we were picking gum after a day of showers. When we had picked enough, we sat down on the moss-grown stones at the end of a long arcade, where it opened out on the harvest-golden valley below us, our jaws exercising themselves vigorously on the spoil of our climbings. We were never allowed to chew gum in school or in company, but in wood and field, orchard and hayloft, such rules were in abeyance.

“My Aunt Jane used to say it wasn’t polite to chew gum anywhere,” said Peter rather ruefully.

“I don’t suppose your Aunt Jane knew all the rules of etiquette,” said Felicity, designing to crush Peter with a big word, borrowed from the 家庭指南. But Peter was not to be so crushed. He had in him a certain toughness of fibre, that would have been proof against a whole dictionary.

“She did, too,” he retorted. “My Aunt Jane was a real lady, even if she was only a Craig. She knew all those rules and she kept them when there was nobody round to see her, just the same as when any one was. And she was smart. If father had had half her git-up-and-git I wouldn’t be a hired boy to-day.”

“Have you any idea where your father is?” asked Dan.

“No,” said Peter indifferently. “The last we heard of him he was in the Maine lumber woods. But that was three years ago. I don’t know where he is now, and,” added Peter deliberately, taking his gum from his mouth to make his statement more impressive, “I don’t care.”

“Oh, Peter, that sounds dreadful,” said Cecily. “Your own father!”

“Well,” said Peter defiantly, “if your own father had run away when you was a baby, and left your mother to earn her living by washing and working out, I guess you wouldn’t care much about him either.”

“Perhaps your father may come home some of these days with a huge fortune,” suggested the Story Girl.

“Perhaps pigs may whistle, but they’ve poor mouths for it,” was all the answer Peter deigned to this charming suggestion.

“There goes Mr. Campbell down the road,” said Dan. “That’s his new mare. Isn’t she a dandy? She’s got a skin like black satin. He calls her Betty Sherman.”

“I don’t think it’s very nice to call a horse after your own grandmother,” said Felicity.

“Betty Sherman would have thought it a compliment,” said the Story Girl.

“Maybe she would. She couldn’t have been very nice herself, or she would never have gone and asked a man to marry her,” said Felicity.

“为什么不？”

“Goodness me, it was dreadful! Would YOU do such a thing yourself?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the Story Girl, her eyes gleaming with impish laughter. “If I wanted him DREADFULLY, and HE wouldn’t do the asking, perhaps I would.”

“I’d rather die an old maid forty times over,” exclaimed Felicity.

“Nobody as pretty as you will ever be an old maid, Felicity,” said Peter, who never put too fine an edge on his compliments.

Felicity tossed her golden tressed head and tried to look angry, but made a dismal failure of it.

“It wouldn’t be ladylike to ask any one to marry you, you know,” argued Cecily.

“I don’t suppose the 家庭指南 would think so,” agreed the Story Girl lazily, with some sarcasm in her voice. The Story Girl never held the 家庭指南 in such reverence as did Felicity and Cecily. They pored over the “etiquette column” every week, and could have told you on demand, just exactly what kind of gloves should be worn at a wedding, what you should say when introducing or being introduced, and how you ought to look when your best young man came to see you.

“They say Mrs. Richard Cook asked HER husband to marry her,” said Dan.

“Uncle Roger says she didn’t exactly ask him, but she helped the lame dog over the stile so slick that Richard was engaged to her before he knew what had happened to him,” said the Story Girl. “I know a story about Mrs. Richard Cook’s grandmother. She was one of those women who are always saying ‘I told you so—‘”

“Take notice, Felicity,” said Dan aside.

“—And she was very stubborn. Soon after she was married she and her husband quarrelled about an apple tree they had planted in their orchard. The label was lost. He said it was a Fameuse and she declared it was a Yellow Transparent. They fought over it till the neighbours came out to listen. Finally he got so angry that he told her to shut up. They didn’t have any 家庭指南 in those days, so he didn’t know it wasn’t polite to say shut up to your wife. I suppose she thought she would teach him manners, for would you believe it? That woman did shut up, and never spoke one single word to her husband for five years. And then, in five years’ time, the tree bore apples, and they WERE Yellow Transparents. And then she spoke at last. She said, ‘I told you so.’”

“And did she talk to him after that as usual?” asked Sara Ray.

“Oh, yes, she was just the same as she used to be,” said the Story Girl wearily. “But that doesn’t belong to the story. It stops when she spoke at last. You’re never satisfied to leave a story where it should stop, Sara Ray.”

“Well, I always like to know what happens afterwards,” said Sara Ray.

“Uncle Roger says he wouldn’t want a wife he could never quarrel with,” remarked Dan. “He says it would be too tame a life for him.”

“I wonder if Uncle Roger will always stay a bachelor,” said Cecily.

“He seems real happy,” observed Peter.

“Ma says that it’s all right as long as he is a bachelor because he won’t take any one,” said Felicity, “but if he wakes up some day and finds he is an old bachelor because he can’t get any one it’ll have a very different flavour.”

“If your Aunt Olivia was to up and get married what would your Uncle Roger do for a housekeeper?” asked Peter.

“Oh, but Aunt Olivia will never be married now,” said Felicity. “Why, she’ll be twenty-nine next January.”

“Well, o’ course, that’s pretty old,” admitted Peter, “but she might find some one who wouldn’t mind that, seeing she’s so pretty.”

“It would be awful splendid and exciting to have a wedding in the family, wouldn’t it?” said Cecily. “I’ve never seen any one married, and I’d just love to. I’ve been to four funerals, but not to one single wedding.”

“I’ve never even got to a funeral,” said Sara Ray gloomily.

“There’s the wedding veil of the proud princess,” said Cecily, pointing to a long drift of filmy vapour in the southwestern sky.

“And look at that sweet pink cloud below it,” added Felicity.

“Maybe that little pink cloud is a dream, getting all ready to float down into somebody’s sleep,” suggested the Story Girl.

“I had a perfectly awful dream last night,” said Cecily, with a shudder of remembrance. “I dreamed I was on a desert island inhabited by tigers and natives with two heads.”

“Oh!” the Story Girl looked at Cecily half reproachfully. “Why couldn’t you tell it better than that? If I had such a dream I could tell it so that everybody else would feel as if they had dreamed it, too.”

“Well, I’m not you,” countered Cecily, “and I wouldn’t want to frighten any one as I was frightened. It was an awful dream—but it was kind of interesting, too.”

“I’ve had some real int’resting dreams,” said Peter, “but I can’t remember them long. I wish I could.”

“Why don’t you write them down?” suggested the Story Girl. “Oh—” she turned upon us a face illuminated with a sudden inspiration. “I’ve an idea. Let us each get an exercise book and write down all our dreams, just as we dream them. We’ll see who’ll have the most interesting collection. And we’ll have them to read and laugh over when we’re old and gray.”

Instantly we all saw ourselves and each other by inner vision, old and gray—all but the Story Girl. We could not picture her as old. Always, as long as she lived, so it seemed to us, must she have sleek brown curls, a voice like the sound of a harpstring in the wind, and eyes that were stars of eternal youth.

The next day the Story Girl coaxed Uncle Roger to take her to Markdale, and there she bought our dream books. They were ten cents apiece, with ruled pages and mottled green covers. My own lies open beside me as I write, its yellowed pages inscribed with the visions that haunted my childish slumbers on those nights of long ago.

On the cover is pasted a lady’s visiting card, on which is written, “The Dream Book of Beverley King.” Cecily had a packet of visiting cards which she was hoarding against the day when she would be grown up and could put the calling etiquette of the 家庭指南 into practice; but she generously gave us all one apiece for the covers of our dream books.

As I turn the pages and glance over the (——) records, each one beginning, “Last night I dreamed,” the past comes very vividly back to me. I see that bowery orchard, shining in memory with a soft glow of beauty—“the light that never was on land or sea,”—where we sat on those September evenings and wrote down our dreams, when the cares of the day were over and there was nothing to interfere with the pleasing throes of composition. Peter—Dan—Felix—Cecily—Felicity—Sara Ray—the Story Girl—they are all around me once more, in the sweet-scented, fading grasses, each with open dream books and pencil in hand, now writing busily, now staring fixedly into space in search of some elusive word or phrase which might best describe the indescribable. I hear their laughing voices, I see their bright, unclouded eyes. In this little, old book, filled with cramped, boyish writing, there is a spell of white magic that sets the years at naught. Beverley King is a boy once more, writing down his dreams in the old King orchard on the homestead hill, blown over by musky winds.

Opposite to him sits the Story Girl, with her scarlet rosetted head, her beautiful bare feet crossed before her, one slender hand propping her high, white brow, on either side of which fall her glossy curls.

There, to the right, is sweet Cecily of the dear, brown eyes, with a little bloated dictionary beside her—for you dream of so many things you can’t spell, or be expected to spell, when you are only eleven. Next to her sits Felicity, beautiful, and conscious that she is beautiful, with hair of spun sunshine, and sea-blue eyes, and all the roses of that vanished summer abloom in her cheeks.

Peter is beside her, of course, sprawled flat on his stomach among the grasses, one hand clutching his black curls, with his dream book on a small, round stone before him—for only so can Peter compose at all, and even then he finds it hard work. He can handle a hoe more deftly than a pencil, and his spelling, even with all his frequent appeals to Cecily, is a fearful and wonderful thing. As for punctuation, he never attempts it, beyond an occasion period, jotted down whenever he happens to think of it, whether in the right place or not. The Story Girl goes over his dreams after he has written them out, and puts in the commas and semicolons, and straightens out the sentences.

Felix sits on the right of the Story Girl, fat and stodgy, grimly in earnest even over dreams. He writes with his knees stuck up to form a writing-desk, and he always frowns fiercely the whole time.

Dan, like Peter, writes lying down flat, but with his back towards us; and he has a dismal habit of groaning aloud, writhing his whole body, and digging his toes into the grass, when he cannot turn a sentence to suit him.

Sara Ray is at his left. There is seldom anything to be said of Sara except to tell where she is. Like Tennyson’s Maud, in one respect at least, Sara is splendidly null.

Well, there we sit and write in our dream books, and Uncle Roger passes by and accuses us of being up to dev—to very bad mischief.

Each of us was very anxious to possess the most exciting record; but we were an honourable little crew, and I do not think anything was ever written down in those dream books which had not really been dreamed. We had expected that the Story Girl would eclipse us all in the matter of dreams; but, at least in the beginning, her dreams were no more remarkable than those of the rest of us. In dreamland we were all equal. Cecily, indeed, seemed to have the most decided talent for dramatic dreams. That meekest and mildest of girls was in the habit of dreaming truly terrible things. Almost every night battle, murder, or sudden death played some part in her visions. On the other hand, Dan, who was a somewhat truculent fellow, addicted to the perusal of lurid dime novels which he borrowed from the other boys in school, dreamed dreams of such a peaceful and pastoral character that he was quite disgusted with the resulting tame pages of his dream book.

But if the Story Girl could not dream anything more wonderful than the rest of us, she scored when it came to the telling. To hear her tell a dream was as good—or as bad—as dreaming it yourself.

As far as writing them down was concerned, I believe that I, Beverley King, carried off the palm. I was considered to possess a pretty knack of composition. But the Story Girl went me one better even there, because, having inherited something of her father’s talent for drawing, she illustrated her dreams with sketches that certainly caught the spirit of them, whatever might be said of their technical excellence. She had an especial knack for drawing monstrosities; and I vividly recall the picture of an enormous and hideous lizard, looking like a reptile of the pterodactyl period, which she had dreamed of seeing crawl across the roof of the house. On another occasion she had a frightful dream—at least, it seemed frightful while she told us and described the dreadful feeling it had given her—of being chased around the parlour by the ottoman, which made faces at her. She drew a picture of the grimacing ottoman on the margin of her dream book which so scared Sara Ray when she beheld it that she cried all the way home, and insisted on sleeping that night with Judy Pineau lest the furniture take to pursuing her also.

Sara Ray’s own dreams never amounted to much. She was always in trouble of some sort—couldn’t get her hair braided, or her shoes on the right feet. Consequently, her dream book was very monotonous. The only thing worth mentioning in the way of dreams that Sara Ray ever achieved was when she dreamed that she went up in a balloon and fell out.

“I expected to come down with an awful thud,” she said shuddering, “but I lit as light as a feather and woke right up.”

“If you hadn’t woke up you’d have died,” said Peter with a dark significance. “If you dream of falling and DON’T wake you DO land with a thud and it kills you. That’s what happens to people who die in their sleep.”

“How do you know?” asked Dan skeptically. “Nobody who died in his sleep could ever tell it.”

“My Aunt Jane told me so,” said Peter.

“I suppose that settles it,” said Felicity disagreeably.

“You always say something nasty when I mention my Aunt Jane,” said Peter reproachfully.

“What did I say that was nasty?” cried Felicity. “I didn’t say a single thing.”

“Well, it sounded nasty,” said Peter, who knew that it is the tone that makes the music.

“What did your Aunt Jane look like?” asked Cecily sympathetically. “Was she pretty?”

“No,” conceded Peter reluctantly, “she wasn’t pretty—but she looked like the woman in that picture the Story Girl’s father sent her last week—the one with the shiny ring round her head and the baby in her lap. I’ve seen Aunt Jane look at me just like that woman looks at her baby. Ma never looks so. Poor ma is too busy washing. I wish I could dream of my Aunt Jane. I never do.”

“‘Dream of the dead, you’ll hear of the living,’” quoted Felix oracularly.

“I dreamed last night that I threw a lighted match into that keg of gunpowder in Mr. Cook’s store at Markdale,” said Peter. “It blew up—and everything blew up—and they fished me out of the mess—but I woke up before I’d time to find out if I was killed or not.”

“One is so apt to wake up just as things get interesting,” remarked the Story Girl discontentedly.

“I dreamed last night that I had really truly curly hair,” said Cecily mournfully. “And oh, I was so happy! It was dreadful to wake up and find it as straight as ever.”

Felix, that sober, solid fellow, dreamed constantly of flying through the air. His descriptions of his aerial flights over the tree-tops of dreamland always filled us with envy. None of the rest of us could ever compass such a dream, not even the Story Girl, who might have been expected to dream of flying if anybody did. Felix had a knack of dreaming anyhow, and his dream book, while suffering somewhat in comparison of literary style, was about the best of the lot when it came to subject matter. Cecily’s might be more dramatic, but Felix’s was more amusing. The dream which we all counted his masterpiece was the one in which a menagerie had camped in the orchard and the rhinoceros chased Aunt Janet around and around the Pulpit Stone, but turned into an inoffensive pig when it was on the point of catching her.

Felix had a sick spell soon after we began our dream books, and Aunt Janet essayed to cure him by administering a dose of liver pills which Elder Frewen had assured her were a cure-all for every disease the flesh is heir to. But Felix flatly refused to take liver pills; Mexican Tea he would drink, but liver pills he would not take, in spite of his own suffering and Aunt Janet’s commands and entreaties. I could not understand his antipathy to the insignificant little white pellets, which were so easy to swallow; but he explained the matter to us in the orchard when he had recovered his usual health and spirits.

“I was afraid to take the liver pills for fear they’d prevent me from dreaming,” he said. “Don’t you remember old Miss Baxter in Toronto, Bev? And how she told Mrs. McLaren that she was subject to terrible dreams, and finally she took two liver pills and never had any more dreams after that. I’d rather have died than risk it,” concluded Felix solemnly.

“I’d an exciting dream last night for once,” said Dan triumphantly. “I dreamt old Peg Bowen chased me. I thought I was up to her house and she took after me. You bet I scooted. And she caught me—yes, sir! I felt her skinny hand reach out and clutch my shoulder. I let out a screech—and woke up.”

“I should think you did screech,” said Felicity. “We heard you clean over into our room.”

“I hate to dream of being chased because I can never run,” said Sara Ray with a shiver. “I just stand rooted to the ground—and see it coming—and can’t stir. It don’t sound much written out, but it’s awful to go through. I’m sure I hope I’ll never dream Peg Bowen chases me. I’ll die if I do.”

“I wonder what Peg Bowen would really do to a fellow if she caught him,” speculated Dan.

“Peg Bowen doesn’t need to catch you to do things to you,” said Peter ominously. “She can put ill-luck on you just by looking at you—and she will if you offend her.”

“I don’t believe that,” said the Story Girl airily.

“Don’t you? All right, then! Last summer she called at Lem Hill’s in Markdale, and he told her to clear out or he’d set the dog on her. Peg cleared out, and she went across his pasture, muttering to herself and throwing her arms round. And next day his very best cow took sick and died. How do you account for that?”

“It might have happened anyhow,” said the Story Girl—somewhat less assuredly, though.

“It might. But I’d just as soon Peg Bowen didn’t look at MY cows,” said Peter.

“As if you had any cows!” giggled Felicity.

“I’m going to have cows some day,” said Peter, flushing. “I don’t mean to be a hired boy all my life. I’ll have a farm of my own and cows and everything. You’ll see if I won’t.”

“I dreamed last night that we opened the blue chest,” said the Story Girl, “and all the things were there—the blue china candlestick—only it was brass in the dream—and the fruit basket with the apple on it, and the wedding dress, and the embroidered petticoat. And we were laughing, and trying the things on, and having such fun. And Rachel Ward herself came and looked at us—so sad and reproachful—and we all felt ashamed, and I began to cry, and woke up crying.”

“I dreamed last night that Felix was thin,” said Peter, laughing. “He did look so queer. His clothes just hung loose, and he was going round trying to hold them on.”

Everybody thought this was funny, except Felix. He would not speak to Peter for two days because of it. Felicity also got into trouble because of her dreams. One night she woke up, having just had a very exciting dream; but she went to sleep again, and in the morning she could not remember the dream at all. Felicity determined she would never let another dream get away from her in such a fashion; and the next time she wakened in the night—having dreamed that she was dead and buried—she promptly arose, lighted a candle, and proceeded to write the dream down then and there. While so employed she contrived to upset the candle and set fire to her nightgown—a brand-new one, trimmed with any quantity of crocheted lace. A huge hole was burned in it, and when Aunt Janet discovered it she lifted up her voice with no uncertain sound. Felicity had never received a sharper scolding. But she took it very philosophically. She was used to her mother’s bitter tongue, and she was not unduly sensitive.

“Anyhow, I saved my dream,” she said placidly.

And that, of course, was all that really mattered. Grown people were so strangely oblivious to the truly important things of life. Material for new garments, of night or day, could be bought in any shop for a trifling sum and made up out of hand. But if a dream escape you, in what market-place the wide world over can you hope to regain it? What coin of earthly minting will ever buy back for you that lost and lovely vision?

Peter took Dan and me aside one evening, as we were on our way to the orchard with our dream books, saying significantly that he wanted our advice. Accordingly, we went round to the spruce wood, where the girls would not see us to the rousing of their curiosity, and then Peter told us of his dilemma.

“Last night I dreamed I was in church,” he said. “I thought it was full of people, and I walked up the aisle to your pew and set down, as unconcerned as a pig on ice. And then I found that I hadn’t a stitch of clothes on—NOT ONE BLESSED STITCH. Now”—Peter dropped his voice—“what is bothering me is this—would it be proper to tell a dream like that before the girls?”

I was of the opinion that it would be rather questionable; but Dan vowed he didn’t see why. HE’D tell it quick as any other dream. There was nothing bad in it.

“But they’re your own relations,” said Peter. “They’re no relation to me, and that makes a difference. Besides, they’re all such ladylike girls. I guess I’d better not risk it. I’m pretty sure Aunt Jane wouldn’t think it was proper to tell such a dream. And I don’t want to offend Fel—any of them.”

So Peter never told that dream, nor did he write it down. Instead, I remember seeing in his dream book, under the date of September fifteenth, an entry to this effect:—

“Last nite i dremed a drem. it wasent a polit drem so i won’t rite it down.”

The girls saw this entry but, to their credit be it told, they never tried to find out what the “drem” was. As Peter said, they were “ladies” in the best and truest sense of that much abused appellation. Full of fun and frolic and mischief they were, with all the defects of their qualities and all the wayward faults of youth. But no indelicate thought or vulgar word could have been shaped or uttered in their presence. Had any of us boys ever been guilty of such, Cecily’s pale face would have coloured with the blush of outraged purity, Felicity’s golden head would have lifted itself in the haughty indignation of insulted womanhood, and the Story Girl’s splendid eyes would have flashed with such anger and scorn as would have shrivelled the very soul of the wretched culprit.

Dan was once guilty of swearing. Uncle Alec whipped him for it—the only time he ever so punished any of his children. But it was because Cecily cried all night that Dan was filled with saving remorse and repentance. He vowed next day to Cecily that he would never swear again, and he kept his word.

All at once the Story Girl and Peter began to forge ahead in the matter of dreaming. Their dreams suddenly became so lurid and dreadful and picturesque that it was hard for the rest of us to believe that they were not painting the lily rather freely in their accounts of them. But the Story Girl was the soul of honour; and Peter, early in life, had had his feet set in the path of truthfulness by his Aunt Jane and had never been known to stray from it. When they assured us solemnly that their dreams all happened exactly as they described them we were compelled to believe them. But there was something up, we felt sure of that. Peter and the Story Girl certainly had a secret between them, which they kept for a whole fortnight. There was no finding it out from the Story Girl. She had a knack of keeping secrets, anyhow; and, moreover, all that fortnight she was strangely cranky and petulant, and we found it was not wise to tease her. She was not well, so Aunt Olivia told Aunt Janet.

“I don’t know what is the matter with the child,” said the former anxiously. “She hasn’t seemed like herself the past two weeks. She complains of headache, and she has no appetite, and she is a dreadful colour. I’ll have to see a doctor about her if she doesn’t get better soon.”

“Give her a good dose of Mexican Tea and try that first,” said Aunt Janet. “I’ve saved many a doctor’s bill in my family by using Mexican Tea.”

The Mexican Tea was duly administered, but produced no improvement in the condition of the Story Girl, who, however, went on dreaming after a fashion which soon made her dream book a veritable curiosity of literature.

“If we can’t soon find out what makes Peter and the Story Girl dream like that, the rest of us might as well give up trying to write dream books,” said Felix discontentedly.

Finally, we did find out. Felicity wormed the secret out of Peter by the employment of Delilah wiles, such as have been the undoing of many a miserable male creature since Samson’s day. She first threatened that she would never speak to him again if he didn’t tell her; and then she promised him that, if he did, she would let him walk beside her to and from Sunday School all the rest of the summer, and carry her books for her. Peter was not proof against this double attack. He yielded and told the secret.

I expected the Story Girl would overwhelm him with scorn and indignation. But she took it very coolly.

“I knew Felicity would get it out of him sometime,” she said. “I think he has done well to hold out this long.”

Peter and the Story Girl, so it appeared, had wooed wild dreams to their pillows by the simple device of eating rich, indigestible things before they went to bed. Aunt Olivia knew nothing about it, of course. She permitted them only a plain, wholesome lunch at bed-time. But during the day the Story Girl would smuggle upstairs various tidbits from the pantry, putting half in Peter’s room and half in her own; and the result was these visions which had been our despair.

“Last night I ate a piece of mince pie,” she said, “and a lot of pickles, and two grape jelly tarts. But I guess I overdid it, because I got real sick and couldn’t sleep at all, so of course I didn’t have any dreams. I should have stopped with the pie and pickles and left the tarts alone. Peter did, and he had an elegant dream that Peg Bowen caught him and put him on to boil alive in that big black pot that hangs outside her door. He woke up before the water got hot, though. Well, Miss Felicity, you’re pretty smart. But how will you like to walk to Sunday School with a boy who wears patched trousers?”

“I won’t have to,” said Felicity triumphantly. “Peter is having a new suit made. It’s to be ready by Saturday. I knew that before I promised.”

Having discovered how to produce exciting dreams, we all promptly followed the example of Peter and the Story Girl.

“There is no chance for me to have any horrid dreams,” lamented Sara Ray, “because ma won’t let me having anything at all to eat before I go to bed. I don’t think it’s fair.”

“Can’t you hide something away through the day as we do?” asked Felicity.

“No.” Sara shook her fawn-coloured head mournfully. “Ma always keeps the pantry locked, for fear Judy Pineau will treat her friends.”

For a week we ate unlawful lunches and dreamed dreams after our own hearts—and, I regret to say, bickered and squabbled incessantly throughout the daytime, for our digestions went out of order and our tempers followed suit. Even the Story Girl and I had a fight—something that had never happened before. Peter was the only one who kept his normal poise. Nothing could upset that boy’s stomach.

One night Cecily came into the pantry with a large cucumber, and proceeded to devour the greater part of it. The grown-ups were away that evening, attending a lecture at Markdale, so we ate our snacks openly, without any recourse to ways that were dark. I remember I supped that night off a solid hunk of fat pork, topped off with a slab of cold plum pudding.

“I thought you didn’t like cucumber, Cecily,” Dan remarked.

“Neither I do,” said Cecily with a grimace. “But Peter says they’re splendid for dreaming. He et one that night he had the dream about being caught by cannibals. I’d eat three cucumbers if I could have a dream like that.”

Cecily finished her cucumber, and then drank a glass of milk, just as we heard the wheels of Uncle Alec’s buggy rambling over the bridge in the hollow. Felicity quickly restored pork and pudding to their own places, and by the time Aunt Janet came in we were all in our respective beds. Soon the house was dark and silent. I was just dropping into an uneasy slumber when I heard a commotion in the girls’ room across the hall.

Their door opened and through our own open door I saw Felicity’s white-clad figure flit down the stairs to Aunt Janet’s room. From the room she had left came moans and cries.

“Cecily’s sick,” said Dan, springing out of bed. “That cucumber must have disagreed with her.”

In a few minutes the whole house was astir. Cecily was sick—very, very sick, there was no doubt of that. She was even worse than Dan had been when he had eaten the bad berries. Uncle Alec, tired as he was from his hard day’s work and evening outing, was despatched for the doctor. Aunt Janet and Felicity administered all the homely remedies they could think of, but to no effect. Felicity told Aunt Janet of the cucumber, but Aunt Janet did not think the cucumber alone could be responsible for Cecily’s alarming condition.

“Cucumbers are indigestible, but I never knew of them making any one as sick as this,” she said anxiously. “What made the child eat a cucumber before going to bed? I didn’t think she liked them.”

“It was that wretched Peter,” sobbed Felicity indignantly. “He told her it would make her dream something extra.”

“What on earth did she want to dream for?” demanded Aunt Janet in bewilderment.

“Oh, to have something worth while to write in her dream book, ma. We all have dream books, you know, and every one wants their own to be the most exciting—and we’ve been eating rich things to make us dream—and it does—but if Cecily—oh, I’ll never forgive myself,” said Felicity, incoherently, letting all kinds of cats out of the bag in her excitement and alarm.

“Well, I wonder what on earth you young ones will do next,” said Aunt Janet in the helpless tone of a woman who gives it up.

Cecily was no better when the doctor came. Like Aunt Janet, he declared that cucumbers alone would not have made her so ill; but when he found out that she had drunk a glass of milk also the mystery was solved.

“Why, milk and cucumbers together make a rank poison,” he said. “No wonder the child is sick. There—there now—” seeing the alarmed faces around him, “don’t be frightened. As old Mrs. Fraser says, ‘It’s no deidly.’ It won’t kill her, but she’ll probably be a pretty miserable girl for two or three days.”

She was. And we were all miserable in company. Aunt Janet investigated the whole affair and the matter of our dream books was aired in family conclave. I do not know which hurt our feelings most—the scolding we got from Aunt Janet, or the ridicule which the other grown-ups, especially Uncle Roger, showered on us. Peter received an extra “setting down,” which he considered rank injustice.

“I didn’t tell Cecily to drink the milk, and the cucumber alone wouldn’t have hurt her,” he grumbled. Cecily was able to be out with us again that day, so Peter felt that he might venture on a grumble. “‘Sides, she coaxed me to tell her what would be good for dreams. I just told her as a favour. And now your Aunt Janet blames me for the whole trouble.”

“And Aunt Janet says we are never to have anything to eat before we go to bed after this except plain bread and milk,” said Felix sadly.

“They’d like to stop us from dreaming altogether if they could,” said the Story Girl wrathfully.

“Well, anyway, they can’t prevent us from growing up,” consoled Dan.

“We needn’t worry about the bread and milk rule,” added Felicity. “Ma made a rule like that once before, and kept it for a week, and then we just slipped back to the old way. That will be what will happen this time, too. But of course we won’t be able to get any more rich things for supper, and our dreams will be pretty flat after this.”

“Well, let’s go down to the Pulpit Stone and I’ll tell you a story I know,” said the Story Girl.

We went—and straightway drank of the waters of forgetfulness. In a brief space we were laughing right merrily, no longer remembering our wrongs at the hands of those cruel grown-ups. Our laughter echoed back from the barns and the spruce grove, as if elfin denizens of upper air were sharing in our mirth.

Presently, also, the laughter of the grown-ups mingled with ours. Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger, Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec, came strolling through the orchard and joined our circle, as they sometimes did when the toil of the day was over, and the magic time ‘twixt light and dark brought truce of care and labour. ‘Twas then we liked our grown-ups best, for then they seemed half children again. Uncle Roger and Uncle Alec lolled in the grass like boys; Aunt Olivia, looking more like a pansy than ever in the prettiest dress of pale purple print, with a knot of yellow ribbon at her throat, sat with her arm about Cecily and smiled on us all; and Aunt Janet’s motherly face lost its every-day look of anxious care.

The Story Girl was in great fettle that night. Never had her tales sparkled with such wit and archness.

“Sara Stanley,” said Aunt Olivia, shaking her finger at her after a side-splitting yarn, “if you don’t watch out you’ll be famous some day.”

“These funny stories are all right,” said Uncle Roger, “but for real enjoyment give me something with a creep in it. Sara, tell us that story of the Serpent Woman I heard you tell one day last summer.”

The Story Girl began it glibly. But before she had gone far with it, I, who was sitting beside her, felt an unaccountable repulsion creeping over me. For the first time since I had known her I wanted to draw away from the Story Girl. Looking around on the faces of the group, I saw that they all shared my feeling. Cecily had put her hands over her eyes. Peter was staring at the Story Girl with a fascinated, horror-strickened gaze. Aunt Olivia was pale and troubled. All looked as if they were held prisoners in the bonds of a fearsome spell which they would gladly break but could not.

It was not our Story Girl who sat there, telling that weird tale in a sibilant, curdling voice. She had put on a new personality like a garment, and that personality was a venomous, evil, loathly thing. I would rather have died than have touched the slim, brown wrist on which she supported herself. The light in her narrowed orbs was the cold, merciless gleam of the serpent’s eye. I felt frightened of this unholy creature who had suddenly come in our dear Story Girl’s place.

When the tale ended there was a brief silence. Then Aunt Janet said severely, but with a sigh of relief,

“Little girls shouldn’t tell such horrible stories.”

This truly Aunt Janetian remark broke the spell. The grown-ups laughed, rather shakily, and the Story Girl—our own dear Story Girl once more, and no Serpent Woman—said protestingly,

“Well, Uncle Roger asked me to tell it. I don’t like telling such stories either. They make me feel dreadful. Do you know, for just a little while, I felt exactly like a snake.”

“You looked like one,” said Uncle Roger. “How on earth do you do it?”

“I can’t explain how I do it,” said the Story Girl perplexedly. “It just does itself.”

Genius can never explain how it does it. It would not be genius if it could. And the Story Girl had genius.

As we left the orchard I walked along behind Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia.

“That was an uncanny exhibition for a girl of fourteen, you know, Roger,” said Aunt Olivia musingly. “What is in store for that child?”

“Fame,” said Uncle Roger. “If she ever has a chance, that is, and I suppose her father will see to that. At least, I hope he will. You and I, Olivia, never had our chance. I hope Sara will have hers.”

This was my first inkling of what I was to understand more fully in later years. Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia had both cherished certain dreams and ambitions in youth, but circumstances had denied them their “chance” and those dreams had never been fulfilled.

“Some day, Olivia,” went on Uncle Roger, “you and I may find ourselves the aunt and uncle of the foremost actress of her day. If a girl of fourteen can make a couple of practical farmers and a pair of matter-of-fact housewives half believe for ten minutes that she really is a snake, what won’t she be able to do when she is thirty? Here, you,” added Uncle Roger, perceiving me, “cut along and get off to your bed. And mind you don’t eat cucumbers and milk before you go.”

We were all in the doleful dumps—at least, all we “young fry” were, and even the grown-ups were sorry and condescended to take an interest in our troubles. Pat, our own, dear, frolicsome Paddy, was sick again—very, very sick.

On Friday he moped and refused his saucer of new milk at milking time. The next morning he stretched himself down on the platform by Uncle Roger’s back door, laid his head on his black paws, and refused to take any notice of anything or anybody. In vain we stroked and entreated and brought him tidbits. Only when the Story Girl caressed him did he give one plaintive little mew, as if to ask piteously why she could not do something for him. At that Cecily and Felicity and Sara Ray all began crying, and we boys felt choky. Indeed, I caught Peter behind Aunt Olivia’s dairy later in the day, and if ever a boy had been crying I vow that boy was Peter. Nor did he deny it when I taxed him with it, but he would not give in that he was crying about Paddy. Nonsense!

“What were you crying for, then?” I said.

“I’m crying because—because my Aunt Jane is dead,” said Peter defiantly.

“But your Aunt Jane died two years ago,” I said skeptically.

“Well, ain’t that all the more reason for crying?” retorted Peter. “I’ve had to do without her for two years, and that’s worse than if it had just been a few days.”

“I believe you were crying because Pat is so sick,” I said firmly.

“As if I’d cry about a cat!” scoffed Peter. And he marched off whistling.

Of course we had tried the lard and powder treatment again, smearing Pat’s paws and sides liberally. But to our dismay, Pat made no effort to lick it off.

“I tell you he’s a mighty sick cat,” said Peter darkly. “When a cat don’t care what he looks like he’s pretty far gone.”

“If we only knew what was the matter with him we might do something,” sobbed the Story Girl, stroking her poor pet’s unresponsive head.

“I could tell you what’s the matter with him, but you’d only laugh at me,” said Peter.

我们都看着他。

“Peter Craig, what do you mean?” asked Felicity.

“‘Zackly what I say.”

“Then, if you know what is the matter with Paddy, tell us,” commanded the Story Girl, standing up. She said it quietly; but Peter obeyed. I think he would have obeyed if she, in that tone and with those eyes, had ordered him to cast himself into the depths of the sea. I know I should.

“He’s BEWITCHED—that’s what’s the matter with him,” said Peter, half defiantly, half shamefacedly.

“Bewitched? Nonsense!”

“There now, what did I tell you?” complained Peter.

The Story Girl looked at Peter, at the rest of us, and then at poor Pat.

“How could he be bewitched?” she asked irresolutely, “and who could bewitch him?”

“I don’t know HOW he was bewitched,” said Peter. “I’d have to be a witch myself to know that. But Peg Bowen bewitched him.”

“Nonsense!” said the Story Girl again.

“All right,” said Peter. “You don’t have to believe me.”

“If Peg Bowen could bewitch anything—and I don’t believe she could—why should she bewitch Pat?” asked the Story Girl. “Everybody here and at Uncle Alec’s is always kind to her.”

“I’ll tell you why,” said Peter. “Thursday afternoon, when you fellows were all in school, Peg Bowen came here. Your Aunt Olivia gave her a lunch—a good one. You may laugh at the notion of Peg being a witch, but I notice your folks are always awful good to her when she comes, and awful careful never to offend her.”

“Aunt Olivia would be good to any poor creature, and so would mother,” said Felicity. “And of course nobody wants to offend Peg, because she is spiteful, and she once set fire to a man’s barn in Markdale when he offended her. But she isn’t a witch—that’s ridiculous.”

“All right. But wait till I tell you. When Peg Bowen was leaving Pat stretched out on the steps. She tramped on his tail. You know Pat doesn’t like to have his tail meddled with. He slewed himself round and clawed her bare foot. If you’d just seen the look she gave him you’d know whether she was a witch or not. And she went off down the lane, muttering and throwing her hands round, just like she did in Lem Hill’s cow pasture. She put a spell on Pat, that’s what she did. He was sick the next morning.”

We looked at each other in miserable, perplexed silence. We were only children—and we believed that there had been such things as witches once upon a time—and Peg Bowen WAS an eerie creature.

“If that’s so—though I can’t believe it—we can’t do anything,” said the Story Girl drearily. “Pat must die.”

Cecily began to weep afresh.

“I’d do anything to save Pat’s life,” she said. “I’d BELIEVE anything.”

“There’s nothing we can do,” said Felicity impatiently.

“I suppose,” sobbed Cecily, “we might go to Peg Bowen and ask her to forgive Pat and take the spell off him. She might, if we apologized real humble.”

At first we were appalled by the suggestion. We didn’t believe that Peg Bowen was a witch. But to go to her—to seek her out in that mysterious woodland retreat of hers which was invested with all the terrors of the unknown! And that this suggestion should come from timid Cecily, of all people! But then, there was poor Pat!

“Would it do any good?” said the Story Girl desperately. “Even if she did make Pat sick I suppose it would only make her crosser if we went and accused her of bewitching him. Besides, she didn’t do anything of the sort.”

But there was some uncertainty in the Story Girl’s voice.

“It wouldn’t do any harm to try,” said Cecily. “If she didn’t make him sick it won’t matter if she is cross.”

“It won’t matter to Pat, but it might to the one who goes to her,” said Felicity. “She isn’t a witch, but she’s a spiteful old woman, and goodness knows what she’d do to us if she caught us. I’m scared of Peg Bowen, and I don’t care who knows it. Ever since I can mind ma’s been saying, ‘If you’re not good Peg Bowen will catch you.’”

“If I thought she really made Pat sick and could make him better, I’d try to pacify her somehow,” said the Story Girl decidedly. “I’m frightened of her, too—but just look at poor, darling Paddy.”

We looked at Paddy who continued to stare fixedly before him with unwinking eyes. Uncle Roger came out and looked at him also, with what seemed to us positively brutal unconcern.

“I’m afraid it’s all up with Pat,” he said.

“Uncle Roger,” said Cecily imploringly, “Peter says Peg Bowen has bewitched Pat for scratching her. Do you think it can be so?”

“Did Pat scratch Peg?” asked Uncle Roger, with a horror-stricken face. “Dear me! Dear me! That mystery is solved. Poor Pat!”

Uncle Roger nodded his head, as if resigning himself and Pat to the worst.

“Do you really think Peg Bowen is a witch, Uncle Roger?” demanded the Story Girl incredulously.

“Do I think Peg Bowen is a witch? My dear Sara, what do YOU think of a woman who can turn herself into a black cat whenever she likes? Is she a witch? Or is she not? I leave it to you.”

“Can Peg Bowen turn herself into a black cat?” asked Felix, staring.

“It’s my belief that that is the least of Peg Bowen’s accomplishments,” answered Uncle Roger. “It’s the easiest thing in the world for a witch to turn herself into any animal you choose to mention. Yes, Pat is bewitched—no doubt of that—not the least in the world.”

“What are you telling those children such stuff for?” asked Aunt Olivia, passing on her way to the well.

“It’s an irresistible temptation,” answered Uncle Roger, strolling over to carry her pail.

“You can see your Uncle Roger believes Peg is a witch,” said Peter.

“And you can see Aunt Olivia doesn’t,” I said, “and I don’t either.”

“See here,” said the Story Girl resolutely, “I don’t believe it, but there MAY be something in it. Suppose there is. The question is, what can we do?”

“I’ll tell you what I’D do,” said Peter. “I’d take a present for Peg, and ask her to make Pat well. I wouldn’t let on I thought she’d made him sick. Then she couldn’t be offended—and maybe she’d take the spell off.”

“I think we’d better all give her something,” said Felicity. “I’m willing to do that. But who’s going to take the presents to her?”

“We must all go together,” said the Story Girl.

“I won’t,” cried Sara Ray in terror. “I wouldn’t go near Peg Bowen’s house for the world, no matter who was with me.”

“I’ve thought of a plan,” said the Story Girl. “Let’s all give her something, as Felicity says. And let us all go up to her place this evening, and if we see her outside we’ll just go quietly and set the things down before her with the letter, and say nothing but come respectfully away.”

“If she’ll let us,” said Dan significantly.

“Can Peg read a letter?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Aunt Olivia says she is a good scholar. She went to school and was a smart girl until she became crazy. We’ll write it very plain.”

“What if we don’t see her?” asked Felicity.

“We’ll put the things on her doorstep then and leave them.”

“She may be miles away over the country by this time,” sighed Cecily, “and never find them until it’s too late for Pat. But it’s the only thing to do. What can we give her?”

“We mustn’t offer her any money,” said the Story Girl. “She’s very indignant when any one does that. She says she isn’t a beggar. But she’ll take anything else. I shall give her my string of blue beads. She’s fond of finery.”

“I’ll give her that sponge cake I made this morning,” said Felicity. “I guess she doesn’t get sponge cake very often.”

“I’ve nothing but the rheumatism ring I got as a premium for selling needles last winter,” said Peter. “I’ll give her that. Even if she hasn’t got rheumatism it’s a real handsome ring. It looks like solid gold.”

“I’ll give her a roll of peppermint candy,” said Felix.

“I’ll give one of those little jars of cherry preserve I made,” said Cecily.

“I won’t go near her,” quavered Sara Ray, “but I want to do something for Pat, and I’ll send that piece of apple leaf lace I knit last week.”

I decided to give the redoubtable Peg some apples from my birthday tree, and Dan declared he would give her a plug of tobacco.

“Oh, won’t she be insulted?” exclaimed Felix, rather horrified.

“Naw,” grinned Dan. “Peg chews tobacco like a man. She’d rather have it than your rubbishy peppermints, I can tell you. I’ll run down to old Mrs. Sampson’s and get a plug.”

“Now, we must write the letter and take it and the presents to her right away, before it gets dark,” said the Story Girl.

We adjourned to the granary to indite the important document, which the Story Girl was to compose.

“How shall I begin it?” she asked in perplexity. “It would never do to say, ‘Dear Peg,’ and ‘Dear Miss Bowen’ sounds too ridiculous.”

“Besides, nobody knows whether she is Miss Bowen or not,” said Felicity. “She went to Boston when she grew up, and some say she was married there and her husband deserted her, and that’s why she went crazy. If she’s married, she won’t like being called Miss.”

“Well, how am I to address her?” asked the Story Girl in despair.

Peter again came to the rescue with a practical suggestion.

“Begin it, ‘Respected Madam,’” he said. “Ma has a letter a school trustee once writ to my Aunt Jane and that’s how it begins.”

“Respected Madam,” wrote the Story Girl. “We want to ask a very great favour of you and we hope you will kindly grant it if you can. Our favourite cat, Paddy, is very sick, and we are afraid he is going to die. Do you think you could cure him? And will you please try? We are all so fond of him, and he is such a good cat, and has no bad habits. Of course, if any of us tramps on his tail he will scratch us, but you know a cat can’t bear to have his tail tramped on. It’s a very tender part of him, and it’s his only way of preventing it, and he doesn’t mean any harm. If you can cure Paddy for us we will always be very, very grateful to you. The accompanying small offerings are a testimonial of our respect and gratitude, and we entreat you to honour us by accepting them.

“Very respectfully yours,

“Sara Stanley.”

“I tell you that last sentence has a fine sound,” said Peter admiringly.

“I didn’t make that up,” admitted the Story Girl honestly. “I read it somewhere and remembered it.”

“I think it’s TOO fine,” criticized Felicity. “Peg Bowen won’t know the meaning of such big words.”

But it was decided to leave them in and we all signed the letter.

Then we got our “testimonials,” and started on our reluctant journey to the domains of the witch. Sara Ray would not go, of course, but she volunteered to stay with Pat while we were away. We did not think it necessary to inform the grown-ups of our errand, or its nature. Grown-ups had such peculiar views. They might forbid our going at all—and they would certainly laugh at us.

Peg Bowen’s house was nearly a mile away, even by the short cut past the swamp and up the wooded hill. We went down through the brook field and over the little plank bridge in the hollow, half lost in its surrounding sea of farewell summers. When we reached the green gloom of the woods beyond we began to feel frightened, but nobody would admit it. We walked very closely together, and we did not talk. When you are near the retreat of witches and folk of that ilk the less you say the better, for their feelings are so notoriously touchy. Of course, Peg wasn’t a witch, but it was best to be on the safe side.

Finally we came to the lane which led directly to her abode. We were all very pale now, and our hearts were beating. The red September sun hung low between the tall spruces to the west. It did not look to me just right for a sun. In fact, everything looked uncanny. I wished our errand were well over.

A sudden bend in the lane brought us out to the little clearing where Peg’s house was before we were half ready to see it. In spite of my fear I looked at it with some curiosity. It was a small, shaky building with a sagging roof, set amid a perfect jungle of weeds. To our eyes, the odd thing about it was that there was no entrance on the ground floor, as there should be in any respectable house. The only door was in the upper story, and was reached by a flight of rickety steps. There was no sign of life about the place except—sight of ill omen—a large black cat, sitting on the topmost step. We thought of Uncle Roger’s gruesome hints. Could that black cat be Peg? Nonsense! But still—it didn’t look like an ordinary cat. It was so large—and had such green, malicious eyes! Plainly, there was something out of the common about the beastie!

In a tense, breathless silence the Story Girl placed our parcels on the lowest step, and laid her letter on the top of the pile. Her brown fingers trembled and her face was very pale.

Suddenly the door above us opened, and Peg Bowen herself appeared on the threshold. She was a tall, sinewy old woman, wearing a short, ragged, drugget skirt which reached scantly below her knees, a scarlet print blouse, and a man’s hat. Her feet, arms, and neck were bare, and she had a battered old clay pipe in her mouth. Her brown face was seamed with a hundred wrinkles, and her tangled, grizzled hair fell unkemptly over her shoulders. She was scowling, and her flashing black eyes held no friendly light.

We had borne up bravely enough hitherto, in spite of our inward, unconfessed quakings. But now our strained nerves gave way, and sheer panic seized us. Peter gave a little yelp of pure terror. We turned and fled across the clearing and into the woods. Down the long hill we tore, like mad, hunted creatures, firmly convinced that Peg Bowen was after us. Wild was that scamper, as nightmare-like as any recorded in our dream books. The Story Girl was in front of me, and I can recall the tremendous leaps she made over fallen logs and little spruce bushes, with her long brown curls streaming out behind her from their scarlet fillet. Cecily, behind me, kept gasping out the contradictory sentences, “Oh, Bev, wait for me,” and “Oh, Bev, hurry, hurry!” More by blind instinct than anything else we kept together and found our way out of the woods. Presently we were in the field beyond the brook. Over us was a dainty sky of shell pink, placid cows were pasturing around us; the farewell summers nodded to us in the friendly breezes. We halted, with a glad realization that we were back in our own haunts and that Peg Bowen had not caught us.

“Oh, wasn’t that an awful experience?” gasped Cecily, shuddering. “I wouldn’t go through it again—I couldn’t, not even for Pat.”

“It come on a fellow so suddent,” said Peter shamefacedly. “I think I could a-stood my ground if I’d known she was going to come out. But when she popped out like that I thought I was done for.”

“We shouldn’t have run,” said Felicity gloomily. “It showed we were afraid of her, and that always makes her awful cross. She won’t do a thing for Pat now.”

“I don’t believe she could do anything, anyway,” said the Story Girl. “I think we’ve just been a lot of geese.”

We were all, except Peter, more or less inclined to agree with her. And the conviction of our folly deepened when we reached the granary and found that Pat, watched over by the faithful Sara Ray, was no better. The Story Girl announced that she would take him into the kitchen and sit up all night with him.

“He sha’n’t die alone, anyway,” she said miserably, gathering his limp body up in her arms.

We did not think Aunt Olivia would give her permission to stay up; but Aunt Olivia did. Aunt Olivia really was a duck. We wanted to stay with her also, but Aunt Janet wouldn’t hear of such a thing. She ordered us off to bed, saying that it was positively sinful in us to be so worked up over a cat. Five heart-broken children, who knew that there are many worse friends than dumb, furry folk, climbed Uncle Alec’s stairs to bed that night.

“There’s nothing we can do now, except pray God to make Pat better,” said Cecily.

I must candidly say that her tone savoured strongly of a last resort; but this was owing more to early training than to any lack of faith on Cecily’s part. She knew and we knew, that prayer was a solemn rite, not to be lightly held, nor degraded to common uses. Felicity voiced this conviction when she said,

“I don’t believe it would be right to pray about a cat.”

“I’d like to know why not,” retorted Cecily, “God made Paddy just as much as He made you, Felicity King, though perhaps He didn’t go to so much trouble. And I’m sure He’s abler to help him than Peg Bowen. Anyhow, I’m going to pray for Pat with all my might and main, and I’d like to see you try to stop me. Of course I won’t mix it up with more important things. I’ll just tack it on after I’ve finished asking the blessings, but before I say amen.”

More petitions than Cecily’s were offered up that night on behalf of Paddy. I distinctly heard Felix—who always said his prayers in a loud whisper, owing to some lasting conviction of early life that God could not hear him if he did not pray audibly—mutter pleadingly, after the “important” part of his devotions was over, “Oh, God, please make Pat better by the morning. PLEASE do.”

And I, even in these late years of irreverence for the dreams of youth, am not in the least ashamed to confess that when I knelt down to say my boyish prayer, I thought of our little furry comrade in his extremity, and prayed as reverently as I knew how for his healing. Then I went to sleep, comforted by the simple hope that the Great Father would, after “important things” were all attended to, remember poor Pat.

As soon as we were up the next morning we rushed off to Uncle Roger’s. But we met Peter and the Story Girl in the lane, and their faces were as the faces of those who bring glad tidings upon the mountains.

“Pat’s better,” cried the Story Girl, blithe, triumphant. “Last night, just at twelve, he began to lick his paws. Then he licked himself all over and went to sleep, too, on the sofa. When I woke Pat was washing his face, and he has taken a whole saucerful of milk. Oh, isn’t it splendid?”

“You see Peg Bowen did put a spell on him,” said Peter, “and then she took it off.”

“I guess Cecily’s prayer had more to do with Pat’s getting better than Peg Bowen,” said Felicity. “She prayed for Pat over and over again. That is why he’s better.”

“Oh, all right,” said Peter, “but I’d advise Pat not to scratch Peg Bowen again, that’s all.”

“I wish I knew whether it was the praying or Peg Bowen that cured Pat,” said Felix in perplexity.

“I don’t believe it was either of them,” said Dan. “Pat just got sick and got better again of his own accord.”

“I’m going to believe that it was the praying,” said Cecily decidedly. “It’s so much nicer to believe that God cured Pat than that Peg Bowen did.”

“But you oughtn’t to believe a thing just ‘cause it would be more comfortable,” objected Peter. “Mind you, I ain’t saying God couldn’t cure Pat. But nothing and nobody can’t ever make me believe that Peg Bowen wasn’t at the bottom of it all.”

Thus faith, superstition, and incredulity strove together amongst us, as in all history.

One warm Sunday evening in the moon of golden-rod, we all, grown-ups and children, were sitting in the orchard by the Pulpit Stone singing sweet old gospel hymns. We could all sing more or less, except poor Sara Ray, who had once despairingly confided to me that she didn’t know what she’d ever do when she went to heaven, because she couldn’t sing a note.

That whole scene comes out clearly for me in memory—the arc of primrose sky over the trees behind the old house, the fruit-laden boughs of the orchard, the bank of golden-rod, like a wave of sunshine, behind the Pulpit Stone, the nameless colour seen on a fir wood in a ruddy sunset. I can see Uncle Alec’s tired, brilliant, blue eyes, Aunt Janet’s wholesome, matronly face, Uncle Roger’s sweeping blond beard and red cheeks, and Aunt Olivia’s full-blown beauty. Two voices ring out for me above all others in the music that echoes through the halls of recollection. Cecily’s sweet and silvery, and Uncle Alec’s fine tenor. “If you’re a King, you sing,” was a Carlisle proverb in those days. Aunt Julia had been the flower of the flock in that respect and had become a noted concert singer. The world had never heard of the rest. Their music echoed only along the hidden ways of life, and served but to lighten the cares of the trivial round and common task.

That evening, after they tired of singing, our grown-ups began talking of their youthful days and doings.

This was always a keen delight to us small fry. We listened avidly to the tales of our uncles and aunts in the days when they, too—hard fact to realize—had been children. Good and proper as they were now, once, so it seemed, they had gotten into mischief and even had their quarrels and disagreements. On this particular evening Uncle Roger told many stories of Uncle Edward, and one in which the said Edward had preached sermons at the mature age of ten from the Pulpit Stone fired, as the sequel will show, the Story Girl’s imagination.

“Can’t I just see him at it now,” said Uncle Roger, “leaning over that old boulder, his cheeks red and his eyes burning with excitement, banging the top of it as he had seen the ministers do in church. It wasn’t cushioned, however, and he always bruised his hands in his self-forgetful earnestness. We thought him a regular wonder. We loved to hear him preach, but we didn’t like to hear him pray, because he always insisted on praying for each of us by name, and it made us feel wretchedly uncomfortable, somehow. Alec, do you remember how furious Julia was because Edward prayed one day that she might be preserved from vanity and conceit over her singing?”

“I should think I do,” laughed Uncle Alec. “She was sitting right there where Cecily is now, and she got up at once and marched right out of the orchard, but at the gate she turned to call back indignantly, ‘I guess you’d better wait till you’ve prayed the conceit out of yourself before you begin on me, Ned King. I never heard such stuck-up sermons as you preach.’ Ned went on praying and never let on he heard her, but at the end of his prayer he wound up with ‘Oh, God, I pray you to keep an eye on us all, but I pray you to pay particular attention to my sister Julia, for I think she needs it even more than the rest of us, world without end, Amen.’”

Our uncles roared with laughter over the recollection. We all laughed, indeed, especially over another tale in which Uncle Edward, leaning too far over the “pulpit” in his earnestness, lost his balance altogether and tumbled ingloriously into the grass below.

“He lit on a big Scotch thistle,” said Uncle Roger, chuckling, “and besides that, he skinned his forehead on a stone. But he was determined to finish his sermon, and finish it he did. He climbed back into the pulpit, with the tears rolling over his cheeks, and preached for ten minutes longer, with sobs in his voice and drops of blood on his forehead. He was a plucky little beggar. No wonder he succeeded in life.”

“And his sermons and prayers were always just about as outspoken as those Julia objected to,” said Uncle Alec. “Well, we’re all getting on in life and Edward is gray; but when I think of him I always see him a little, rosy, curly-headed chap, laying down the law to us from the Pulpit Stone. It seems like the other day that we were all here together, just as these children are, and now we are scattered everywhere. Julia in California, Edward in Halifax, Alan in South America, Felix and Felicity and Stephen gone to the land that is very far off.”

There was a little space of silence; and then Uncle Alec began, in a low, impressive voice, to repeat the wonderful verses of the ninetieth Psalm—verses which were thenceforth bound up for us with the beauty of that night and the memories of our kindred. Very reverently we all listened to the majestic words.

“Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting thou art God…. For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night…. For all our days are passed away in thy wrath; we spend our years as a tale that is told. The days of our years are threescore and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years yet is their strength, labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off and we fly away…. So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom…. Oh, satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days…. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us; and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.”

The dusk crept into the orchard like a dim, bewitching personality. You could see her—feel her—hear her. She tiptoed softly from tree to tree, ever drawing nearer. Presently her filmy wings hovered over us and through them gleamed the early stars of the autumn night.

The grown-ups rose reluctantly and strolled away; but we children lingered for a moment to talk over an idea the Story Girl broached—a good idea, we thought enthusiastically, and one that promised to add considerable spice to life.

We were on the lookout for some new amusement. Dream books had begun to pall. We no longer wrote in them very regularly, and our dreams were not what they used to be before the mischance of the cucumber. So the Story Girl’s suggestion came pat to the psychological moment.

“I’ve thought of a splendid plan,” she said. “It just flashed into my mind when the uncles were talking about Uncle Edward. And the beauty of it is we can play it on Sundays, and you know there are so few things it is proper to play on Sundays. But this is a Christian game, so it will be all right.”

“It isn’t like the religious fruit basket game, is it?” asked Cecily anxiously.

We had good reason to hope that it wasn’t. One desperate Sunday afternoon, when we had nothing to read and the time seemed endless, Felix had suggested that we have a game of fruit-basket; only instead of taking the names of fruits, we were to take the names of Bible characters. This, he argued, would make it quite lawful and proper to play on Sunday. We, too desirous of being convinced, also thought so; and for a merry hour Lazarus and Martha and Moses and Aaron and sundry other worthies of Holy Writ had a lively time of it in the King orchard. Peter having a Scriptural name of his own, did not want to take another; but we would not allow this, because it would give him an unfair advantage over the rest of us. It would be so much easier to call out your own name than fit your tongue to an unfamiliar one. So Peter retaliated by choosing Nebuchadnezzar, which no one could ever utter three times before Peter shrieked it out once.

In the midst of our hilarity, however, Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet came down upon us. It is best to draw a veil over what followed. Suffice it to say that the recollection gave point to Cecily’s question.

“No, it isn’t that sort of game at all,” said the Story Girl. “It is this; each of you boys must preach a sermon, as Uncle Edward used to do. One of you next Sunday, and another the next, and so on. And whoever preaches the best sermon is to get a prize.”

Dan promptly declared he wouldn’t try to preach a sermon; but Peter, Felix and I thought the suggestion a very good one. Secretly, I believed I could cut quite a fine figure preaching a sermon.

“Who’ll give the prize?” asked Felix.

“I will,” said the Story Girl. “I’ll give that picture father sent me last week.”

As the said picture was an excellent copy of one of Landseer’s stags, Felix and I were well pleased; but Peter averred that he would rather have the Madonna that looked like his Aunt Jane, and the Story Girl agreed that if his sermon was the best she would give him that.

“But who’s to be the judge?” I said, “and what kind of a sermon would you call the best?”

“The one that makes the most impression,” answered the Story Girl promptly. “And we girls must be the judges, because there’s nobody else. Now, who is to preach next Sunday?”

It was decided that I should lead off, and I lay awake for an extra hour that night thinking what text I should take for the following Sunday. The next day I bought two sheets of foolscap from the schoolmaster, and after tea I betook myself to the granary, barred the door, and fell to writing my sermon. I did not find it as easy a task as I had anticipated; but I pegged grimly away at it, and by dint of severe labour for two evenings I eventually got my four pages of foolscap filled, although I had to pad the subject-matter not a little with verses of quotable hymns. I had decided to preach on missions, as being a topic more within my grasp than abstruse theological doctrines or evangelical discourses; and, mindful of the need of making an impression, I drew a harrowing picture of the miserable plight of the heathen who in their darkness bowed down to wood and stone. Then I urged our responsibility concerning them, and meant to wind up by reciting, in a very solemn and earnest voice, the verse beginning, “Can we whose souls are lighted.” When I had completed my sermon I went over it very carefully again and wrote with red ink—Cecily made it for me out of an aniline dye—the word “thump” wherever I deemed it advisable to chastise the pulpit.

I have that sermon still, all its red thumps unfaded, lying beside my dream book; but I am not going to inflict it on my readers. I am not so proud of it as I once was. I was really puffed up with earthly vanity over it at that time. Felix, I thought, would be hard put to it to beat it. As for Peter, I did not consider him a rival to be feared. It was unsupposable that a hired boy, with little education and less experience of church-going, should be able to preach better than could I, in whose family there was a real minister.

The sermon written, the next thing was to learn it off by heart and then practise it, thumps included, until I was letter and gesture perfect. I preached it over several times in the granary with only Paddy, sitting immovably on a puncheon, for audience. Paddy stood the test fairly well. At least, he made an adorable listener, save at such times as imaginary rats distracted his attention.

Mr. Marwood had at least three absorbed listeners the next Sunday morning. Felix, Peter and I were all among the chiels who were taking mental notes on the art of preaching a sermon. Not a motion, or glance, or intonation escaped us. To be sure, none of us could remember the text when we got home; but we knew just how you should throw back your head and clutch the edge of the pulpit with both hands when you announced it.

In the afternoon we all repaired to the orchard, Bibles and hymn books in hand. We did not think it necessary to inform the grown-ups of what was in the wind. You could never tell what kink a grown-up would take. They might not think it proper to play any sort of a game on Sunday, not even a Christian game. Least said was soonest mended where grown-ups were concerned.

I mounted the pulpit steps, feeling rather nervous, and my audience sat gravely down on the grass before me. Our opening exercises consisted solely of singing and reading. We had agreed to omit prayer. Neither Felix, Peter nor I felt equal to praying in public. But we took up a collection. The proceeds were to go to missions. Dan passed the plate—Felicity’s rosebud plate—looking as preternaturally solemn as Elder Frewen himself. Every one put a cent on it.

Well, I preached my sermon. And it fell horribly flat. I realized that, before I was half way through it. I think I preached it very well; and never a thump did I forget or misplace. But my audience was plainly bored. When I stepped down from the pulpit, after demanding passionately if we whose souls were lighted and so forth, I felt with secret humiliation that my sermon was a failure. It had made no impression at all. Felix would be sure to get the prize.

“That was a very good sermon for a first attempt,” said the Story Girl graciously. “It sounded just like real sermons I have heard.”

For a moment the charm of her voice made me feel that I had not done so badly after all; but the other girls, thinking it their duty to pay me some sort of a compliment also, quickly dispelled that pleasing delusion.

“Every word of it was true,” said Cecily, her tone unconsciously implying that this was its sole merit.

“I often feel,” said Felicity primly, “that we don’t think enough about the heathens. We ought to think a great deal more.”

Sara Ray put the finishing touch to my mortification.

“It was so nice and short,” she said.

“What was the matter with my sermon?” I asked Dan that night. Since he was neither judge nor competitor I could discuss the matter with him.

“It was too much like a reg’lar sermon to be interesting,” said Dan frankly.

“I should think the more like a regular sermon it was, the better,” I said.

“Not if you want to make an impression,” said Dan seriously. “You must have something sort of different for that. Peter, now, HE’LL have something different.”

“Oh, Peter! I don’t believe he can preach a sermon,” I said.

“Maybe not, but you’ll see he’ll make an impression,” said Dan.

Dan was neither the prophet nor the son of a prophet, but he had the second sight for once; Peter DID make an impression.

Peter’s turn came next. He did not write his sermon out. That, he averred, was too hard work. Nor did he mean to take a text.

“Why, who ever heard of a sermon without a text?” asked Felix blankly.

“I am going to take a SUBJECT instead of a text,” said Peter loftily. “I ain’t going to tie myself down to a text. And I’m going to have heads in it—three heads. You hadn’t a single head in yours,” he added to me.

“Uncle Alec says that Uncle Edward says that heads are beginning to go out of fashion,” I said defiantly—all the more defiantly that I felt I should have had heads in my sermon. It would doubtless have made a much deeper impression. But the truth was I had forgotten all about such things.

“Well, I’m going to have them, and I don’t care if they are unfashionable,” said Peter. “They’re good things. Aunt Jane used to say if a man didn’t have heads and stick to them he’d go wandering all over the Bible and never get anywhere in particular.”

“What are you going to preach on?” asked Felix.

“You’ll find out next Sunday,” said Peter significantly.

The next Sunday was in October, and a lovely day it was, warm and bland as June. There was something in the fine, elusive air, that recalled beautiful, forgotten things and suggested delicate future hopes. The woods had wrapped fine-woven gossamers about them and the westering hill was crimson and gold.

We sat around the Pulpit Stone and waited for Peter and Sara Ray. It was the former’s Sunday off and he had gone home the night before, but he assured us he would be back in time to preach his sermon. Presently he arrived and mounted the granite boulder as if to the manor born. He was dressed in his new suit and I, perceiving this, felt that he had the advantage of me. When I preached I had to wear my second best suit, for it was one of Aunt Janet’s laws that we should take our good suits off when we came home from church. There were, I saw, compensations for being a hired boy.

Peter made quite a handsome little minister, in his navy blue coat, white collar, and neatly bowed tie. His black eyes shone, and his black curls were brushed up in quite a ministerial pompadour, but threatened to tumble over at the top in graceless ringlets.

It was decided that there was no use in waiting for Sara Ray, who might or might not come, according to the humour in which her mother was. Therefore Peter proceeded with the service.

He read the chapter and gave out the hymn with as much SANG FROID as if he had been doing it all his life. Mr. Marwood himself could not have bettered the way in which Peter said,

“We will sing the whole hymn, omitting the fourth stanza.”

That was a fine touch which I had not thought of. I began to think that, after all, Peter might be a foeman worthy of my steel.

When Peter was ready to begin he thrust his hands into his pockets—a totally unorthodox thing. Then he plunged in without further ado, speaking in his ordinary conversational tone—another unorthodox thing. There was no shorthand reporter present to take that sermon down; but, if necessary, I could preach it over verbatim, and so, I doubt not, could everyone that heard it. It was not a forgettable kind of sermon.

“Dearly beloved,” said Peter, “my sermon is about the bad place—in short, about hell.”

An electric shock seemed to run through the audience. Everybody looked suddenly alert. Peter had, in one sentence, done what my whole sermon had failed to do. He had made an impression.

“I shall divide my sermon into three heads,” pursued Peter. “The first head is, what you must not do if you don’t want to go to the bad place. The second head is, what the bad place is like”—sensation in the audience—“and the third head is, how to escape going there.

“Now, there’s a great many things you must not do, and it’s very important to know what they are. You ought not to lose no time in finding out. In the first place you mustn’t ever forget to mind what grown-up people tell you—that is, GOOD grown-up people.”

“But how are you going to tell who are the good grown-up people?” asked Felix suddenly, forgetting that he was in church.

“Oh, that is easy,” said Peter. “You can always just FEEL who is good and who isn’t. And you mustn’t tell lies and you mustn’t murder any one. You must be specially careful not to murder any one. You might be forgiven for telling lies, if you was real sorry for them, but if you murdered any one it would be pretty hard to get forgiven, so you’d better be on the safe side. And you mustn’t commit suicide, because if you did that you wouldn’t have any chance of repenting it; and you mustn’t forget to say your prayers and you mustn’t quarrel with your sister.”

At this point Felicity gave Dan a significant poke with her elbow, and Dan was up in arms at once.

“Don’t you be preaching at me, Peter Craig,” he cried out. “I won’t stand it. I don’t quarrel with my sister any oftener than she quarrels with me. You can just leave me alone.”

“Who’s touching you?” demanded Peter. “I didn’t mention no names. A minister can say anything he likes in the pulpit, as long as he doesn’t mention any names, and nobody can answer back.”

“All right, but just you wait till to-morrow,” growled Dan, subsiding reluctantly into silence under the reproachful looks of the girls.

“You must not play any games on Sunday,” went on Peter, “that is, any week-day games—or whisper in church, or laugh in church—I did that once but I was awful sorry—and you mustn’t take any notice of Paddy—I mean of the family cat at family prayers, not even if he climbs up on your back. And you mustn’t call names or make faces.”

“Amen,” cried Felix, who had suffered many things because Felicity so often made faces at him.

Peter stopped and glared at him over the edge of the Pulpit Stone.

“You haven’t any business to call out a thing like that right in the middle of a sermon,” he said.

“They do it in the Methodist church at Markdale,” protested Felix, somewhat abashed. “I heard them.”

“I know they do. That’s the Methodist way and it is all right for them. I haven’t a word to say against Methodists. My Aunt Jane was one, and I might have been one myself if I hadn’t been so scared of the Judgment Day. But you ain’t a Methodist. You’re a Presbyterian, ain’t you?”

“Yes, of course. I was born that way.”

“Very well then, you’ve got to do things the Presbyterian way. Don’t let me hear any more of your amens or I’ll amen you.”

“Oh, don’t anybody interrupt again,” implored the Story Girl. “It isn’t fair. How can any one preach a good sermon if he is always being interrupted? Nobody interrupted Beverley.”

“Bev didn’t get up there and pitch into us like that,” muttered Dan.

“You mustn’t fight,” resumed Peter undauntedly. “That is, you mustn’t fight for the fun of fighting, nor out of bad temper. You must not say bad words or swear. You mustn’t get drunk—although of course you wouldn’t be likely to do that before you grow up, and the girls never. There’s prob’ly a good many other things you mustn’t do, but these I’ve named are the most important. Of course, I’m not saying you’ll go to the bad place for sure if you do them. I only say you’re running a risk. The devil is looking out for the people who do these things and he’ll be more likely to get after them than to waste time over the people who don’t do them. And that’s all about the first head of my sermon.”

At this point Sara Ray arrived, somewhat out of breath. Peter looked at her reproachfully.

“You’ve missed my whole first head, Sara,” he said, “that isn’t fair, when you’re to be one of the judges. I think I ought to preach it over again for you.”

“That was really done once. I know a story about it,” said the Story Girl.

“Who’s interrupting now?” aid Dan slyly.

“Never mind, tell us the story,” said the preacher himself, eagerly leaning over the pulpit.

“It was Mr. Scott who did it,” said the Story Girl. “He was preaching somewhere in Nova Scotia, and when he was more than half way through his sermon—and you know sermons were VERY long in those days—a man walked in. Mr. Scott stopped until he had taken his seat. Then he said, ‘My friend, you are very late for this service. I hope you won’t be late for heaven. The congregation will excuse me if I recapitulate the sermon for our friend’s benefit.’ And then he just preached the sermon over again from the beginning. It is said that that particular man was never known to be late for church again.”

“It served him right,” said Dan, “but it was pretty hard lines on the rest of the congregation.”

“Now, let’s be quiet so Peter can go on with his sermon,” said Cecily.

Peter squared his shoulders and took hold of the edge of the pulpit. Never a thump had he thumped, but I realized that his way of leaning forward and fixing this one or that one of his hearers with his eye was much more effective.

“I’ve come now to the second head of my sermon—what the bad place is like.”

He proceeded to describe the bad place. Later on we discovered that he had found his material in an illustrated translation of Dante’s 地狱 which had once been given to his Aunt Jane as a school prize. But at the time we supposed he must be drawing from Biblical sources. Peter had been reading the Bible steadily ever since what we always referred to as “the Judgment Sunday,” and he was by now almost through it. None of the rest of us had ever read the Bible completely through, and we thought Peter must have found his description of the world of the lost in some portion with which we were not acquainted. Therefore, his utterances carried all the weight of inspiration, and we sat appalled before his lurid phrases. He used his own words to clothe the ideas he had found, and the result was a force and simplicity that struck home to our imaginations.

Suddenly Sara Ray sprang to her feet with a scream—a scream that changed into strange laughter. We all, preacher included, looked at her aghast. Cecily and Felicity sprang up and caught hold of her. Sara Ray was really in a bad fit of hysterics, but we knew nothing of such a thing in our experience, and we thought she had gone mad. She shrieked, cried, laughed, and flung herself about.

“She’s gone clean crazy,” said Peter, coming down out of his pulpit with a very pale face.

“You’ve frightened her crazy with your dreadful sermon,” said Felicity indignantly.

She and Cecily each took Sara by an arm and, half leading, half carrying, got her out of the orchard and up to the house. The rest of us looked at each other in terrified questioning.

“You’ve made rather too much of an impression, Peter,” said the Story Girl miserably.

“She needn’t have got so scared. If she’d only waited for the third head I’d have showed her how easy it was to get clear of going to the bad place and go to heaven instead. But you girls are always in such a hurry,” said Peter bitterly.

“Do you s’pose they’ll have to take her to the asylum?” said Dan in a whisper.

“Hush, here’s your father,” said Felix.

Uncle Alec came striding down the orchard. We had never before seen Uncle Alec angry. But there was no doubt that he was very angry. His blue eyes fairly blazed at us as he said,

“What have you been doing to frighten Sara Ray into such a condition?”

“We—we were just having a sermon contest,” explained the Story Girl tremulously. “And Peter preached about the bad place, and it frightened Sara. That is all, Uncle Alec.”

“All! I don’t know what the result will be to that nervous delicate child. She is shrieking in there and nothing will quiet her. What do you mean by playing such a game on Sunday, and making a jest of sacred things? No, not a word—” for the Story Girl had attempted to speak. “You and Peter march off home. And the next time I find you up to such doings on Sunday or any other day I’ll give you cause to remember it to your latest hour.”

The Story Girl and Peter went humbly home and we went with them.

“I CAN’T understand grown-up people,” said Felix despairingly. “When Uncle Edward preached sermons it was all right, but when we do it it is ‘making a jest of sacred things.’ And I heard Uncle Alec tell a story once about being nearly frightened to death when he was a little boy, by a minister preaching on the end of the world; and he said, ‘That was something like a sermon. You don’t hear such sermons nowadays.’ But when Peter preaches just such a sermon, it’s a very different story.”

“It’s no wonder we can’t understand the grown-ups,” said the Story Girl indignantly, “because we’ve never been grown-up ourselves. But THEY have been children, and I don’t see why they can’t understand us. Of course, perhaps we shouldn’t have had the contest on Sundays. But all the same I think it’s mean of Uncle Alec to be so cross. Oh, I do hope poor Sara won’t have to be taken to the asylum.”

Poor Sara did not have to be. She was eventually quieted down, and was as well as usual the next day; and she humbly begged Peter’s pardon for spoiling his sermon. Peter granted it rather grumpily, and I fear that he never really quite forgave Sara for her untimely outburst. Felix, too, felt resentment against her, because he had lost the chance of preaching his sermon.

“Of course I know I wouldn’t have got the prize, for I couldn’t have made such an impression as Peter,” he said to us mournfully, “but I’d like to have had a chance to show what I could do. That’s what comes of having those cry-baby girls mixed up in things. Cecily was just as scared as Sara Ray, but she’d more sense than to show it like that.”

“Well, Sara couldn’t help it,” said the Story Girl charitably, “but it does seem as if we’d had dreadful luck in everything we’ve tried lately. I thought of a new game this morning, but I’m almost afraid to mention it, for I suppose something dreadful will come of it, too.”

“Oh, tell us, what is it?” everybody entreated.

“Well, it’s a trial by ordeal, and we’re to see which of us can pass it. The ordeal is to eat one of the bitter apples in big mouthfuls without making a single face.”

Dan made a face to begin with.

“I don’t believe any of us can do that,” he said.

“YOU can’t, if you take bites big enough to fill your mouth,” giggled Felicity, with cruelty and without provocation.

“Well, maybe you could,” retorted Dan sarcastically. “You’d be so afraid of spoiling your looks that you’d rather die than make a face, I s’pose, no matter what you et.”

“Felicity makes enough faces when there’s nothing to make faces at,” said Felix, who had been grimaced at over the breakfast table that morning and hadn’t liked it.

“I think the bitter apples would be real good for Felix,” said Felicity. “They say sour things make people thin.”

“Let’s go and get the bitter apples,” said Cecily hastily, seeing that Felix, Felicity and Dan were on the verge of a quarrel more bitter than the apples.

We went to the seedling tree and got an apple apiece. The game was that every one must take a bite in turn, chew it up, and swallow it, without making a face. Peter again distinguished himself. He, and he alone, passed the ordeal, munching those dreadful mouthfuls without so much as a change of expression on his countenance, while the facial contortions the rest of us went through baffled description. In every subsequent trial it was the same. Peter never made a face, and no one else could help making them. It sent him up fifty per cent in Felicity’s estimation.

“Peter is a real smart boy,” she said to me. “It’s such a pity he is a hired boy.”

But, if we could not pass the ordeal, we got any amount of fun out of it, at least. Evening after evening the orchard re-echoed to our peals of laughter.

“Bless the children,” said Uncle Alec, as he carried the milk pails across the yard. “Nothing can quench their spirits for long.”

I could never understand why Felix took Peter’s success in the Ordeal of Bitter Apples so much to heart. He had not felt very keenly over the matter of the sermons, and certainly the mere fact that Peter could eat sour apples without making faces did not cast any reflection on the honour or ability of the other competitors. But to Felix everything suddenly became flat, stale, and unprofitable, because Peter continued to hold the championship of bitter apples. It haunted his waking hours and obsessed his nights. I heard him talking in his sleep about it. If anything could have made him thin the way he worried over this matter would have done it.

For myself, I cared not a groat. I had wished to be successful in the sermon contest, and felt sore whenever I thought of my failure. But I had no burning desire to eat sour apples without grimacing, and I did not sympathize over and above with my brother. When, however, he took to praying about it, I realized how deeply he felt on the subject, and hoped he would be successful.

Felix prayed earnestly that he might be enabled to eat a bitter apple without making a face. And when he had prayed three nights after this manner, he contrived to eat a bitter apple without a grimace until he came to the last bite, which proved too much for him. But Felix was vastly encouraged.

“Another prayer or two, and I’ll be able to eat a whole one,” he said jubilantly.

But this devoutly desired consummation did not come to pass. In spite of prayers and heroic attempts, Felix could never get beyond that last bite. Not even faith and works in combination could avail. For a time he could not understand this. But he thought the mystery was solved when Cecily came to him one day and told him that Peter was praying against him.

“He’s praying that you’ll never be able to eat a bitter apple without making a face,” she said. “He told Felicity and Felicity told me. She said she thought it was real cute of him. I think that is a dreadful way to talk about praying and I told her so. She wanted me to promise not to tell you, but I wouldn’t promise, because I think it’s fair for you to know what is going on.”

Felix was very indignant—and aggrieved as well.

“I don’t see why God should answer Peter’s prayers instead of mine,” he said bitterly. “I’ve gone to church and Sunday School all my life, and Peter never went till this summer. It isn’t fair.”

“Oh, Felix, don’t talk like that,” said Cecily, shocked. “God MUST be fair. I’ll tell you what I believe is the reason. Peter prays three times a day regular—in the morning and at dinner time and at night—and besides that, any time through the day when he happens to think of it, he just prays, standing up. Did you ever hear of such goings-on?”

“Well, he’s got to stop praying against me, anyhow,” said Felix resolutely. “I won’t put up with it, and I’ll go and tell him so right off.”

Felix marched over to Uncle Roger’s, and we trailed after, scenting a scene. We found Peter shelling beans in the granary, and whistling cheerily, as with a conscience void of offence towards all men.

“Look here, Peter,” said Felix ominously, “they tell me that you’ve been praying right along that I couldn’t eat a bitter apple. Now, I tell you—”

“I never did!” exclaimed Peter indignantly. “I never mentioned your name. I never prayed that you couldn’t eat a bitter apple. I just prayed that I’d be the only one that could.”

“Well, that’s the same thing,” cried Felix. “You’ve just been praying for the opposite to me out of spite. And you’ve got to stop it, Peter Craig.”

“Well, I just guess I won’t,” said Peter angrily. “I’ve just as good a right to pray for what I want as you, Felix King, even if you was brought up in Toronto. I s’pose you think a hired boy hasn’t any business to pray for particular things, but I’ll show you. I’ll just pray for what I please, and I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

“You’ll have to fight me, if you keep on praying against me,” said Felix.

The girls gasped; but Dan and I were jubilant, snuffing battle afar off.

“All right. I can fight as well as pray.”

“Oh, don’t fight,” implored Cecily. “I think it would be dreadful. Surely you can arrange it some other way. Let’s all give up the Ordeal, anyway. There isn’t much fun in it. And then neither of you need pray about it.”

“I don’t want to give up the Ordeal,” said Felix, “and I won’t.”

“Oh, well, surely you can settle it some way without fighting,” persisted Cecily.

“I’m not wanting to fight,” said Peter. “It’s Felix. If he don’t interfere with my prayers there’s no need of fighting. But if he does there’s no other way to settle it.”

“But how will that settle it?” asked Cecily.

“Oh, whoever’s licked will have to give in about the praying,” said Peter. “That’s fair enough. If I’m licked I won’t pray for that particular thing any more.”

“It’s dreadful to fight about anything so religious as praying,” sighed poor Cecily.

“Why, they were always fighting about religion in old times,” said Felix. “The more religious anything was the more fighting there was about it.”

“A fellow’s got a right to pray as he pleases,” said Peter, “and if anybody tries to stop him he’s bound to fight. That’s my way of looking at it.”

“What would Miss Marwood say if she knew you were going to fight?” asked Felicity.

Miss Marwood was Felix’ Sunday School teacher and he was very fond of her. But by this time Felix was quite reckless.

“I don’t care what she would say,” he retorted.

Felicity tried another tack.

“You’ll be sure to get whipped if you fight with Peter,” she said. “You’re too fat to fight.”

After that, no moral force on earth could have prevented Felix from fighting. He would have faced an army with banners.

“You might settle it by drawing lots,” said Cecily desperately.

“Drawing lots is wickeder that fighting,” said Dan. “It’s a kind of gambling.”

“What would Aunt Jane say if she knew you were going to fight?” Cecily demanded of Peter.

“Don’t you drag my Aunt Jane into this affair,” said Peter darkly.

“You said you were going to be a Presbyterian,” persisted Cecily. “Good Presbyterians don’t fight.”

“Oh, don’t they! I heard your Uncle Roger say that Presbyterians were the best for fighting in the world—or the worst, I forget which he said, but it means the same thing.”

Cecily had but one more shot in her locker.

“I thought you said in your sermon, Master Peter, that people shouldn’t fight.”

“I said they oughtn’t to fight for fun, or for bad temper,” retorted Peter. “This is different. I know what I’m fighting for but I can’t think of the word.”

“I guess you mean principle,” I suggested.

“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Peter. “It’s all right to fight for principle. It’s kind of praying with your fists.”

“Oh, can’t you do something to prevent them from fighting, Sara?” pleaded Cecily, turning to the Story Girl, who was sitting on a bin, swinging her shapely bare feet to and fro.

“It doesn’t do to meddle in an affair of this kind between boys,” said the Story Girl sagely.

I may be mistaken, but I do not believe the Story Girl wanted that fight stopped. And I am far from being sure that Felicity did either.

It was ultimately arranged that the combat should take place in the fir wood behind Uncle Roger’s granary. It was a nice, remote, bosky place where no prowling grown-up would be likely to intrude. And thither we all resorted at sunset.

“I hope Felix will beat,” said the Story Girl to me, “not only for the family honour, but because that was a mean, mean prayer of Peter’s. Do you think he will?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed dubiously. “Felix is too fat. He’ll get out of breath in no time. And Peter is such a cool customer, and he’s a year older than Felix. But then Felix has had some practice. He has fought boys in Toronto. And this is Peter’s first fight.”

“Did you ever fight?” asked the Story Girl.

“Once,” I said briefly, dreading the next question, which promptly came.

“Who beat?”

It is sometimes a bitter thing to tell the truth, especially to a young lady for whom you have a great admiration. I had a struggle with temptation in which I frankly confess I might have been worsted had it not been for a saving and timely remembrance of a certain resolution made on the day preceding Judgment Sunday.

“The other fellow,” I said with reluctant honesty.

“Well,” said the Story Girl, “I think it doesn’t matter whether you get whipped or not so long as you fight a good, square fight.”

Her potent voice made me feel that I was quite a hero after all, and the sting went out of my recollection of that old fight.

When we arrived behind the granary the others were all there. Cecily was very pale, and Felix and Peter were taking off their coats. There was a pure yellow sunset that evening, and the aisles of the fir wood were flooded with its radiance. A cool, autumnal wind was whistling among the dark boughs and scattering blood red leaves from the maple at the end of the granary.

“Now,” said Dan, “I’ll count, and when I say three you pitch in, and hammer each other until one of you has had enough. Cecily, keep quiet. Now, one—two—three!”

Peter and Felix “pitched in,” with more zeal than discretion on both sides. As a result, Peter got what later developed into a black eye, and Felix’s nose began to bleed. Cecily gave a shriek and ran out of the wood. We thought she had fled because she could not endure the sight of blood, and we were not sorry, for her manifest disapproval and anxiety were damping the excitement of the occasion.

Felix and Peter drew apart after that first onset, and circled about one another warily. Then, just as they had come to grips again, Uncle Alec walked around the corner of the granary, with Cecily behind him.

He was not angry. There was a quizzical look in his eyes. But he took the combatants by their shirt collars and dragged them apart.

“This stops right here, boys,” he said. “You know I don’t allow fighting.”

“Oh, but Uncle Alec, it was this way,” began Felix eagerly. “Peter—”

“No, I don’t want to hear about it,” said Uncle Alec sternly. “I don’t care what you were fighting about, but you must settle your quarrels in a different fashion. Remember my commands, Felix. Peter, Roger is looking for you to wash his buggy. Be off.”

Peter went off rather sullenly, and Felix, also sullenly, sat down and began to nurse his nose. He turned his back on Cecily.

Cecily “caught it” after Uncle Alec had gone. Dan called her a tell-tale and a baby, and sneered at her until Cecily began to cry.

“I couldn’t stand by and watch Felix and Peter pound each other all to pieces,” she sobbed. “They’ve been such friends, and it was dreadful to see them fighting.”

“Uncle Roger would have let them fight it out,” said the Story Girl discontentedly. “Uncle Roger believes in boys fighting. He says it’s as harmless a way as any of working off their original sin. Peter and Felix wouldn’t have been any worse friends after it. They’d have been better friends because the praying question would have been settled. And now it can’t be—unless Felicity can coax Peter to give up praying against Felix.”

For once in her life the Story Girl was not as tactful as her wont. Or—is it possible that she said it out of malice prepense? At all events, Felicity resented the imputation that she had more influence with Peter than any one else.

“I don’t meddle with hired boys’ prayers,” she said haughtily.

“It was all nonsense fighting about such prayers, anyhow,” said Dan, who probably thought that since all chance of a fight was over, he might as well avow his real sentiments as to its folly. “Just as much nonsense as praying about the bitter apples in the first place.”

“Oh, Dan, don’t you believe there is some good in praying?” said Cecily reproachfully.

“Yes, I believe there’s some good in some kinds of praying, but not in that kind,” said Dan sturdily. “I don’t believe God cares whether anybody can eat an apple without making a face or not.”

“I don’t believe it’s right to talk of God as if you were well acquainted with Him,” said Felicity, who felt that it was a good chance to snub Dan.

“There’s something wrong somewhere,” said Cecily perplexedly. “We ought to pray for what we want, of that I’m sure—and Peter wanted to be the only one who could pass the Ordeal. It seems as if he must be right—and yet it doesn’t seem so. I wish I could understand it.”

“Peter’s prayer was wrong because it was a selfish prayer, I guess,” said the Story Girl thoughtfully. “Felix’s prayer was all right, because it wouldn’t have hurt any one else; but it was selfish of Peter to want to be the only one. We mustn’t pray selfish prayers.”

“Oh, I see through it now,” said Cecily joyfully.

“Yes, but,” said Dan triumphantly, “if you believe God answers prayers about particular things, it was Peter’s prayer He answered. What do you make of that?”

“Oh!” the Story Girl shook her head impatiently. “There’s no use trying to make such things out. We only get more mixed up all the time. Let’s leave it alone and I’ll tell you a story. Aunt Olivia had a letter today from a friend in Nova Scotia, who lives in Shubenacadie. When I said I thought it a funny name, she told me to go and look in her scrap book, and I would find a story about the origin of the name. And I did. Don’t you want to hear it?”

Of course we did. We all sat down at the roots of the firs. Felix, having finally squared matters with his nose, turned around and listened also. He would not look at Cecily, but every one else had forgiven her.

The Story Girl leaned that brown head of hers against the fir trunk behind her, and looked up at the apple-green sky through the dark boughs above us. She wore, I remember, a dress of warm crimson, and she had wound around her head a string of waxberries, that looked like a fillet of pearls. Her cheeks were still flushed with the excitement of the evening. In the dim light she was beautiful, with a wild, mystic loveliness, a compelling charm that would not be denied.

“Many, many moons ago, an Indian tribe lived on the banks of a river in Nova Scotia. One of the young braves was named Accadee. He was the tallest and bravest and handsomest young man in the tribe—”

“Why is it they’re always so handsome in stories?” asked Dan. “Why are there never no stories about ugly people?”

“Perhaps ugly people never have stories happen to them,” suggested Felicity.

“I think they’re just as interesting as the handsome people,” retorted Dan.

“Well, maybe they are in real life,” said Cecily, “but in stories it’s just as easy to make them handsome as not. I like them best that way. I just love to read a story where the heroine is beautiful as a dream.”

“Pretty people are always conceited,” said Felix, who was getting tired of holding his tongue.

“The heroes in stories are always nice,” said Felicity, with apparent irrelevance. “They’re always so tall and slender. Wouldn’t it be awful funny if any one wrote a story about a fat hero—or about one with too big a mouth?”

“It doesn’t matter what a man LOOKS like,” I said, feeling that Felix and Dan were catching it rather too hotly. “He must be a good sort of chap and DO heaps of things. That’s all that’s necessary.”

“Do any of you happen to want to hear the rest of my story?” asked the Story Girl in an ominously polite voice that recalled us to a sense of our bad manners. We apologized and promised to behave better; she went on, appeased:

“Accadee was all these things that I have mentioned, and he was the best hunter in the tribe besides. Never an arrow of his that did not go straight to the mark. Many and many a snow white moose he shot, and gave the beautiful skin to his sweetheart. Her name was Shuben and she was as lovely as the moon when it rises from the sea, and as pleasant as a summer twilight. Her eyes were dark and soft, her foot was as light as a breeze, and her voice sounded like a brook in the woods, or the wind that comes over the hills at night. She and Accadee were very much in love with each other, and often they hunted together, for Shuben was almost as skilful with her bow and arrow as Accadee himself. They had loved each other ever since they were small pappooses, and they had vowed to love each other as long as the river ran.

“One twilight, when Accadee was out hunting in the woods, he shot a snow white moose; and he took off its skin and wrapped it around him. Then he went on through the woods in the starlight; and he felt so happy and light of heart that he sometimes frisked and capered about just as a real moose would do. And he was doing this when Shuben, who was also out hunting, saw him from afar and thought he was a real moose. She stole cautiously through the woods until she came to the brink of a little valley. Below her stood the snow white moose. She drew her arrow to her eye—alas, she knew the art only too well!—and took careful aim. The next moment Accadee fell dead with her arrow in his heart.”

The Story Girl paused—a dramatic pause. It was quite dark in the fir wood. We could see her face and eyes but dimly through the gloom. A silvery moon was looking down on us over the granary. The stars twinkled through the softly waving boughs. Beyond the wood we caught a glimpse of a moonlit world lying in the sharp frost of the October evening. The sky above it was chill and ethereal and mystical.

But all about us were shadows; and the weird little tale, told in a voice fraught with mystery and pathos, had peopled them for us with furtive folk in belt and wampum, and dark-tressed Indian maidens.

“What did Shuben do when she found out she had killed Accadee?” asked Felicity.

“She died of a broken heart before the spring, and she and Accadee were buried side by side on the bank of the river which has ever since borne their names—the river Shubenacadie,” said the Story Girl.

The sharp wind blew around the granary and Cecily shivered. We heard Aunt Janet’s voice calling “Children, children.” Shaking off the spell of firs and moonlight and romantic tale, we scrambled to our feet and went homeward.

“I kind of wish I’d been born an Injun,” said Dan. “It must have been a jolly life—nothing to do but hunt and fight.”

“It wouldn’t be so nice if they caught you and tortured you at the stake,” said Felicity.

“No,” said Dan reluctantly. “I suppose there’d be some drawback to everything, even being an Injun.”

“Isn’t it cold?” said Cecily, shivering again. “It will soon be winter. I wish summer could last forever. Felicity likes the winter, and so does the Story Girl, but I don’t. It always seems so long till spring.”

“Never mind, we’ve had a splendid summer,” I said, slipping my arm about her to comfort some childish sorrow that breathed in her plaintive voice.

Truly, we had had a delectable summer; and, having had it, it was ours forever. “The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.” They may rob us of our future and embitter our present, but our past they may not touch. With all its laughter and delight and glamour it is our eternal possession.

Nevertheless, we all felt a little of the sadness of the waning year. There was a distinct weight on our spirits until Felicity took us into the pantry and stayed us with apple tarts and comforted us with cream. Then we brightened up. It was really a very decent world after all.

Felix, so far as my remembrance goes, never attained to success in the Ordeal of Bitter Apples. He gave up trying after awhile; and he also gave up praying about it, saying in bitterness of spirit that there was no use in praying when other fellows prayed against you out of spite. He and Peter remained on bad terms for some time, however.

We were all of us too tired those nights to do any special praying. Sometimes I fear our “regular” prayers were slurred over, or mumbled in anything but reverent haste. October was a busy month on the hill farms. The apples had to be picked, and this work fell mainly to us children. We stayed home from school to do it. It was pleasant work and there was a great deal of fun in it; but it was hard, too, and our arms and backs ached roundly at night. In the mornings it was very delightful; in the afternoons tolerable; but in the evenings we lagged, and the laughter and zest of fresher hours were lacking.

Some of the apples had to be picked very carefully. But with others it did not matter; we boys would climb the trees and shake the apples down until the girls shrieked for mercy. The days were crisp and mellow, with warm sunshine and a tang of frost in the air, mingled with the woodsy odours of the withering grasses. The hens and turkeys prowled about, pecking at windfalls, and Pat made mad rushes at them amid the fallen leaves. The world beyond the orchard was in a royal magnificence of colouring, under the vivid blue autumn sky. The big willow by the gate was a splendid golden dome, and the maples that were scattered through the spruce grove waved blood-red banners over the sombre cone-bearers. The Story Girl generally had her head garlanded with their leaves. They became her vastly. Neither Felicity nor Cecily could have worn them. Those two girls were of a domestic type that assorted ill with the wildfire in Nature’s veins. But when the Story Girl wreathed her nut brown tresses with crimson leaves it seemed, as Peter said, that they grew on her—as if the gold and flame of her spirit had broken out in a coronal, as much a part of her as the pale halo seems a part of the Madonna it encircles.

What tales she told us on those far-away autumn days, peopling the russet arcades with folk of an elder world. Many a princess rode by us on her palfrey, many a swaggering gallant ruffled it bravely in velvet and plume adown Uncle Stephen’s Walk, many a stately lady, silken clad, walked in that opulent orchard!

When we had filled our baskets they had to be carried to the granary loft, and the contents stored in bins or spread on the floor to ripen further. We ate a good many, of course, feeling that the labourer was worthy of his hire. The apples from our own birthday trees were stored in separate barrels inscribed with our names. We might dispose of them as we willed. Felicity sold hers to Uncle Alec’s hired man—and was badly cheated to boot, for he levanted shortly afterwards, taking the apples with him, having paid her only half her rightful due. Felicity has not gotten over that to this day.

Cecily, dear heart, sent most of hers to the hospital in town, and no doubt gathered in therefrom dividends of gratitude and satisfaction of soul, such as can never be purchased by any mere process of bargain and sale. The rest of us ate our apples, or carried them to school where we bartered them for such treasures as our schoolmates possessed and we coveted.

There was a dusky, little, pear-shaped apple—from one of Uncle Stephen’s trees—which was our favourite; and next to it a delicious, juicy yellow apple from Aunt Louisa’s tree. We were also fond of the big sweet apples; we used to throw them up in the air and let them fall on the ground until they were bruised and battered to the bursting point. Then we sucked on the juice; sweeter was it than the nectar drunk by blissful gods on the Thessalian hill.

Sometimes we worked until the cold yellow sunsets faded out over the darkening distances, and the hunter’s moon looked down on us through the sparkling air. The constellations of autumn scintillated above us. Peter and the Story Girl knew all about them, and imparted their knowledge to us generously. I recall Peter standing on the Pulpit Stone, one night ere moonrise, and pointing them out to us, occasionally having a difference of opinion with the Story Girl over the name of some particular star. Job’s Coffin and the Northern Cross were to the west of us; south of us flamed Fomalhaut. The Great Square of Pegasus was over our heads. Cassiopeia sat enthroned in her beautiful chair in the north-east; and north of us the Dippers swung untiringly around the Pole Star. Cecily and Felix were the only ones who could distinguish the double star in the handle of the Big Dipper, and greatly did they plume themselves thereon. The Story Girl told us the myths and legends woven around these immemorial clusters, her very voice taking on a clear, remote, starry sound as she talked of them. When she ceased, we came back to earth, feeling as if we had been millions of miles away in the blue ether, and that all our old familiar surroundings were momentarily forgotten and strange.

That night when he pointed out the stars to us from the Pulpit Stone was the last time for several weeks that Peter shared our toil and pastime. The next day he complained of headache and sore throat, and seemed to prefer lying on Aunt Olivia’s kitchen sofa to doing any work. As it was not in Peter to be a malingerer he was left in peace, while we picked apples. Felix alone, must unjustly and spitefully, declared that Peter was simply shirking.

“He’s just lazy, that’s what’s the matter with him,” he said.

“Why don’t you talk sense, if you must talk?” said Felicity. “There’s no sense in calling Peter lazy. You might as well say I had black hair. Of course, Peter, being a Craig, has his faults, but he’s a smart boy. His father was lazy but his mother hasn’t a lazy bone in her body, and Peter takes after her.”

“Uncle Roger says Peter’s father wasn’t exactly lazy,” said the Story Girl. “The trouble was, there were so many other things he liked better than work.”

“I wonder if he’ll ever come back to his family,” said Cecily. “Just think how dreadful it would be if OUR father had left us like that!”

“Our father is a King,” said Felicity loftily, “and Peter’s father was only a Craig. A member of our family COULDN’T behave like that.”

“They say there must be a black sheep in every family,” said the Story Girl.

“There isn’t any in ours,” said Cecily loyally.

“Why do white sheep eat more than black?” asked Felix.

“Is that a conundrum?” asked Cecily cautiously. “If it is I won’t try to guess the reason. I never can guess conundrums.”

“It isn’t a conundrum,” said Felix. “It’s a fact. They do—and there’s a good reason for it.”

We stopped picking apples, sat down on the grass, and tried to reason it out—with the exception of Dan, who declared that he knew there was a catch somewhere and he wasn’t going to be caught. The rest of us could not see where any catch could exist, since Felix solemnly vowed, ‘cross his heart, white sheep did eat more than black. We argued over it seriously, but finally had to give it up.

“Well, what is the reason?” asked Felicity.

“Because there’s more of them,” said Felix, grinning.

I forget what we did to Felix.

A shower came up in the evening and we had to stop picking. After the shower there was a magnificent double rainbow. We watched it from the granary window, and the Story Girl told us an old legend, culled from one of Aunt Olivia’s many scrapbooks.

“Long, long ago, in the Golden Age, when the gods used to visit the earth so often that it was nothing uncommon to see them, Odin made a pilgrimage over the world. Odin was the great god of the northland, you know. And wherever he went among men he taught them love and brotherhood, and skilful arts; and great cities sprang up where he had trodden, and every land through which he passed was blessed because one of the gods had come down to men. But many men and women followed Odin himself, giving up all their worldly possessions and ambitions; and to these he promised the gift of eternal life. All these people were good and noble and unselfish and kind; but the best and noblest of them all was a youth named Ving; and this youth was beloved by Odin above all others, for his beauty and strength and goodness. Always he walked on Odin’s right hand, and always the first light of Odin’s smile fell on him. Tall and straight was he as a young pine, and his long hair was the colour of ripe wheat in the sun; and his blue eyes were like the northland heavens on a starry night.

“In Odin’s band was a beautiful maiden named Alin. She was as fair and delicate as a young birch tree in spring among the dark old pines and firs, and Ving loved her with all his heart. His soul thrilled with rapture at the thought that he and she together should drink from the fountain of immortality, as Odin had promised, and be one thereafter in eternal youth.

“At last they came to the very place where the rainbow touched the earth. And the rainbow was a great bridge, built of living colours, so dazzling and wonderful that beyond it the eye could see nothing, only far away a great, blinding, sparkling glory, where the fountain of life sprang up in a shower of diamond fire. But under the Rainbow Bridge rolled a terrible flood, deep and wide and violent, full of rocks and rapids and whirlpools.

“There was a Warder of the bridge, a god, dark and stern and sorrowful. And to him Odin gave command that he should open the gate and allow his followers to cross the Rainbow Bridge, that they might drink of the fountain of life beyond. And the Warder set open the gate.

“‘Pass on and drink of the fountain,’ he said. ‘To all who taste of it shall immortality be given. But only to that one who shall drink of it first shall be permitted to walk at Odin’s right hand forever.’

“Then the company passed through in great haste, all fired with a desire to be the first to drink of the fountain and win so marvellous a boon. Last of all came Ving. He had lingered behind to pluck a thorn from the foot of a beggar child he had met on the highway, and he had not heard the Warder’s words. But when, eager, joyous, radiant, he set his foot on the rainbow, the stern, sorrowful Warder took him by the arm and drew him back.

“‘Ving, strong, noble, and valiant,’ he said, ‘Rainbow Bridge is not for thee.’

“Very dark grew Ving’s face. Hot rebellion rose in his heart and rushed over his pale lips.

“‘Why dost thou keep back the draught of immortality from me?’ he demanded passionately.

“The Warder pointed to the dark flood that rolled under the bridge.

“‘The path of the rainbow is not for thee,’ he said, ‘but yonder way is open. Ford that flood. On the furthest bank is the fountain of life.’

“‘Thou mockest me,’ muttered Ving sullenly. ‘No mortal could cross that flood. Oh, Master,’ he prayed, turning beseechingly to Odin, ‘thou didst promise to me eternal life as to the others. Wilt thou not keep that promise? Command the Warder to let me pass. He must obey thee.’

“But Odin stood silent, with his face turned from his beloved, and Ving’s heart was filled with unspeakable bitterness and despair.

“‘Thou mayest return to earth if thou fearest to essay the flood,’ said the Warder.

“‘Nay,’ said Ving wildly, ‘earthly life without Alin is more dreadful than the death which awaits me in yon dark river.’

“And he plunged fiercely in. He swam, and struggled, he buffetted the turmoil. The waves went over his head again and again, the whirlpools caught him and flung him on the cruel rocks. The wild, cold spray beat on his eyes and blinded him, so that he could see nothing, and the roar of the river deafened him so that he could hear nothing; but he felt keenly the wounds and bruises of the cruel rocks, and many a time he would have given up the struggle had not the thought of sweet Alin’s loving eyes brought him the strength and desire to struggle as long as it was possible. Long, long, long, to him seemed that bitter and perilous passage; but at last he won through to the furthest side. Breathless and reeling, his vesture torn, his great wounds bleeding, he found himself on the shore where the fountain of immortality sprang up. He staggered to its brink and drank of its clear stream. Then all pain and weariness fell away from him, and he rose up, a god, beautiful with immortality. And as he did there came rushing over the Rainbow Bridge a great company—the band of fellow travellers. But all were too late to win the double boon. Ving had won to it through the danger and suffering of the dark river.”

The rainbow had faded out, and the darkness of the October dusk was falling.

“I wonder,” said Dan meditatively, as we went away from that redolent spot, “what it would be like to live for ever in this world.”

“I expect we’d get tired of it after awhile,” said the Story Girl. “But,” she added, “I think it would be a goodly while before I would.”

We were all up early the next morning, dressing by candlelight. But early as it was we found the Story Girl in the kitchen when we went down, sitting on Rachel Ward’s blue chest and looking important.

“What do you think?” she exclaimed. “Peter has the measles! He was dreadfully sick all night, and Uncle Roger had to go for the doctor. He was quite light-headed, and didn’t know any one. Of course he’s far too sick to be taken home, so his mother has come up to wait on him, and I’m to live over here until he is better.”

This was mingled bitter and sweet. We were sorry to hear that Peter had the measles; but it would be jolly to have the Story Girl living with us all the time. What orgies of story telling we should have!

“I suppose we’ll all have the measles now,” grumbled Felicity. “And October is such an inconvenient time for measles—there’s so much to do.”

“I don’t believe any time is very convenient to have the measles,” Cecily said.

“Oh, perhaps we won’t have them,” said the Story Girl cheerfully. “Peter caught them at Markdale, the last time he was home, his mother says.”

“I don’t want to catch the measles from Peter,” said Felicity decidedly. “Fancy catching them from a hired boy!”

“Oh, Felicity, don’t call Peter a hired boy when he’s sick,” protested Cecily.

During the next two days we were very busy—too busy to tell tales or listen to them. Only in the frosty dusk did we have time to wander afar in realms of gold with the Story Girl. She had recently been digging into a couple of old volumes of classic myths and northland folklore which she had found in Aunt Olivia’s attic; and for us, god and goddess, laughing nymph and mocking satyr, norn and valkyrie, elf and troll, and “green folk” generally, were real creatures once again, inhabiting the orchards and woods and meadows around us, until it seemed as if the Golden Age had returned to earth.

Then, on the third day, the Story Girl came to us with a very white face. She had been over to Uncle Roger’s yard to hear the latest bulletin from the sick room. Hitherto they had been of a non-committal nature; but now it was only too evident that she had bad news.

“Peter is very, very sick,” she said miserably. “He has caught cold someway—and the measles have struck in—and—and—” the Story Girl wrung her brown hands together—“the doctor is afraid he—he—won’t get better.”

We all stood around, stricken, incredulous.

“Do you mean,” said Felix, finding voice at length, “that Peter is going to die?”

The Story Girl nodded miserably.

“They’re afraid so.”

Cecily sat down by her half filled basket and began to cry. Felicity said violently that she didn’t believe it.

“I can’t pick another apple to-day and I ain’t going to try,” said Dan.

None of us could. We went to the grown-ups and told them so; and the grown-ups, with unaccustomed understanding and sympathy, told us that we need not. Then we roamed about in our wretchedness and tried to comfort one another. We avoided the orchard; it was for us too full of happy memories to accord with our bitterness of soul. Instead, we resorted to the spruce wood, where the hush and the sombre shadows and the soft, melancholy sighing of the wind in the branches over us did not jar harshly on our new sorrow.

We could not really believe that Peter was going to die—to DIE. Old people died. Grown-up people died. Even children of whom we had heard died. But that one of US—of our merry little band—should die was unbelievable. We could not believe it. And yet the possibility struck us in the face like a blow. We sat on the mossy stones under the dark old evergreens and gave ourselves up to wretchedness. We all, even Dan, cried, except the Story Girl.

“I don’t see how you can be so unfeeling, Sara Stanley,” said Felicity reproachfully. “You’ve always been such friends with Peter—and made out you thought so much of him—and now you ain’t shedding a tear for him.”

I looked at the Story Girl’s dry, piteous eyes, and suddenly remembered that I had never seen her cry. When she told us sad tales, in a voice laden with all the tears that had ever been shed, she had never shed one of her own.

“I can’t cry,” she said drearily. “I wish I could. I’ve a dreadful feeling here—” she touched her slender throat—“and if I could cry I think it would make it better. But I can’t.”

“Maybe Peter will get better after all,” said Dan, swallowing a sob. “I’ve heard of lots of people who went and got better after the doctor said they were going to die.”

“While there’s life there’s hope, you know,” said Felix. “We shouldn’t cross bridges till we come to them.”

“Those are only proverbs,” said the Story Girl bitterly. “Proverbs are all very fine when there’s nothing to worry you, but when you’re in real trouble they’re not a bit of help.”

“Oh, I wish I’d never said Peter wasn’t fit to associate with,” moaned Felicity. “If he ever gets better I’ll never say such a thing again—I’ll never THINK it. He’s just a lovely boy and twice as smart as lots that aren’t hired out.”

“He was always so polite and good-natured and obliging,” sighed Cecily.

“He was just a real gentleman,” said the Story Girl.

“There ain’t many fellows as fair and square as Peter,” said Dan.

“And such a worker,” said Felix.

“Uncle Roger says he never had a boy he could depend on like Peter,” I said.

“It’s too late to be saying all these nice things about him now,” said the Story Girl. “He won’t ever know how much we thought of him. It’s too late.”

“If he gets better I’ll tell him,” said Cecily resolutely.

“I wish I hadn’t boxed his ears that day he tried to kiss me,” went on Felicity, who was evidently raking her conscience for past offences in regard to Peter. “Of course I couldn’t be expected to let a hir—to let a boy kiss me. But I needn’t have been so cross about it. I might have been more dignified. And I told him I just hated him. That wasn’t true, but I s’pose he’ll die thinking it is. Oh, dear me, what makes people say things they’ve got to be so sorry for afterwards?”

“I suppose if Peter d-d-dies he’ll go to heaven anyhow,” sobbed Cecily. “He’s been real good all this summer, but he isn’t a church member.”

“He’s a Presbyterian, you know,” said Felicity reassuringly. Her tone expressed her conviction that that would carry Peter through if anything would. “We’re none of us church members. But of course Peter couldn’t be sent to the bad place. That would be ridiculous. What would they do with him there, when he’s so good and polite and honest and kind?”

“Oh, I think he’ll be all right, too,” sighed Cecily, “but you know he never did go to church and Sunday School before this summer.”

“Well, his father run away, and his mother was too busy earning a living to bring him up right,” argued Felicity. “Don’t you suppose that anybody, even God, would make allowances for that?”

“Of course Peter will go to heaven,” said the Story Girl. “He’s not grown up enough to go anywhere else. Children always go to heaven. But I don’t want him to go there or anywhere else. I want him to stay right here. I know heaven must be a splendid place, but I’m sure Peter would rather be here, having fun with us.”

“Sara Stanley,” rebuked Felicity. “I should think you wouldn’t say such things at such a solemn time. You’re such a queer girl.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be here yourself than in heaven?” said the Story Girl bluntly. “Wouldn’t you now, Felicity King? Tell the truth, ‘cross your heart.”

But Felicity took refuge from this inconvenient question in tears.

“If we could only DO something to help Peter!” I said desperately. “It seems dreadful not to be able to do a single thing.”

“There’s one thing we can do,” said Cecily gently. “We can pray for him.”

“So we can,” I agreed.

“I’m going to pray like sixty,” said Felix energetically.

“We’ll have to be awful good, you know,” warned Cecily. “There’s no use praying if you’re not good.”

“That will be easy,” sighed Felicity. “I don’t feel a bit like being bad. If anything happens to Peter I feel sure I’ll never be naughty again. I won’t have the heart.”

We did, indeed, pray most sincerely for Peter’s recovery. We did not, as in the case of Paddy, “tack it on after more important things,” but put it in the very forefront of our petitions. Even skeptical Dan prayed, his skepticism falling away from him like a discarded garment in this valley of the shadow, which sifts out hearts and tries souls, until we all, grown-up or children, realize our weakness, and, finding that our own puny strength is as a reed shaken in the wind, creep back humbly to the God we have vainly dreamed we could do without.

Peter was no better the next day. Aunt Olivia reported that his mother was broken-hearted. We did not again ask to be released from work. Instead, we went at it with feverish zeal. If we worked hard there was less time for grief and grievious thoughts. We picked apples and dragged them to the granary doggedly. In the afternoon Aunt Janet brought us a lunch of apple turnovers; but we could not eat them. Peter, as Felicity reminded us with a burst of tears, had been so fond of apple turnovers.

And, oh, how good we were! How angelically and unnaturally good! Never was there such a band of kind, sweet-tempered, unselfish children in any orchard. Even Felicity and Dan, for once in their lives, got through the day without any exchange of left-handed compliments. Cecily confided to me that she never meant to put her hair up in curlers on Saturday nights again, because it was pretending. She was so anxious to repent of something, sweet girl, and this was all she could think of.

During the afternoon Judy Pineau brought up a tear-blotted note from Sara Ray. Sara had not been allowed to visit the hill farm since Peter had developed measles. She was an unhappy little exile, and could only relieve her anguish of soul by daily letters to Cecily, which the faithful and obliging Judy Pineau brought up for her. These epistles were as gushingly underlined as if Sara had been a correspondent of early Victorian days.

Cecily did not write back, because Mrs. Ray had decreed that no letters must be taken down from the hill farm lest they carry infection. Cecily had offered to bake every epistle thoroughly in the oven before sending it; but Mrs. Ray was inexorable, and Cecily had to content herself by sending long verbal messages with Judy Pineau.

“My OWN DEAREST Cecily,” ran Sara’s letter. “I have just heard the sad news about POOR DEAR PETER. I can’t describe MY FEELINGS. They are DREADFUL. I have been crying ALL THE AFTERNOON. I wish I could FLY to you, but ma will not let me. She is afraid I will catch the measles, but I would rather have the measles A DOZEN TIMES OVER than be sepparated from you all like this. But I have felt, ever since the Judgment Sunday that I MUST OBEY MA BETTER than I used to do. If ANYTHING HAPPENS to Peter and you are let see him BEFORE IT HAPPENS give him MY LOVE and tell him HOW SORRY I AM, and that I hope we will ALL meet in A BETTER WORLD Everything in school is about the same. The master is awful cross by spells. Jimmy Frewen walked home with Nellie Bowan last night from prayer-meeting and HER ONLY FOURTEEN. Don’t you think it horrid BEGINNING SO YOUNG? YOU AND ME would NEVER do anything like that till we were GROWN UP, would we? Willy Fraser looks SO LONESOME in school these days. I must stop for ma says I waste FAR TOO MUCH TIME writing letters. Tell Judy ALL THE NEWS for me.

“Your OWN TRUE FRIEND,

“Sara Ray.

“P.S. Oh I DO hope Peter will get better. Ma is going to get me a new brown dress for the winter.

“s. R.”

When evening came we went to our seats under the whispering, sighing fir trees. It was a beautiful night—clear, windless, frosty. Some one galloped down the road on horseback, lustily singing a comic song. How dared he? We felt that it was an insult to our wretchedness. If Peter were going to—going to—well, if anything happened to Peter, we felt so miserably sure that the music of life would be stilled for us for ever. How could any one in the world be happy when we were so unhappy?

Presently Aunt Olivia came down the long twilight arcade. Her bright hair was uncovered and she looked slim and queen-like in her light dress. We thought Aunt Olivia very pretty then. Looking back from a mature standpoint I realize that she must have been an unusually beautiful woman; and she looked her prettiest as she stood under the swaying boughs in the last faint light of the autumn dusk and smiled down at our woebegone faces.

“Dear, sorrowful little people, I bring you glad tidings of great joy,” she said. “The doctor has just been here, and he finds Peter much better, and thinks he will pull through after all.”

We gazed up at her in silence for a few moments. When we had heard the news of Paddy’s recovery we had been noisy and jubilant; but we were very quiet now. We had been too near something dark and terrible and menacing; and though it was thus suddenly removed the chill and shadow of it were about us still. Presently the Story Girl, who had been standing up, leaning against a tall fir, slipped down to the ground in a huddled fashion and broke into a very passion of weeping. I had never heard any one cry so, with dreadful, rending sobs. I was used to hearing girls cry. It was as much Sara Ray’s normal state as any other, and even Felicity and Cecily availed themselves occasionally of the privilege of sex. But I had never heard any girl cry like this. It gave me the same unpleasant sensation which I had felt one time when I had seen my father cry.

“Oh, don’t, Sara, don’t,” I said gently, patting her convulsed shoulder.

“You ARE a queer girl,” said Felicity—more tolerantly than usual however—“you never cried a speck when you thought Peter was going to die—and now when he is going to get better you cry like that.”

“Sara, child, come with me,” said Aunt Olivia, bending over her. The Story Girl got up and went away, with Aunt Olivia’s arms around her. The sound of her crying died away under the firs, and with it seemed to go the dread and grief that had been our portion for hours. In the reaction our spirits rose with a bound.

“Oh, ain’t it great that Peter’s going to be all right?” said Dan, springing up.

“I never was so glad of anything in my whole life,” declared Felicity in shameless rapture.

“Can’t we send word somehow to Sara Ray to-night?” asked Cecily, the ever-thoughtful. “She’s feeling so bad—and she’ll have to feel that way till to-morrow if we can’t.”

“Let’s all go down to the Ray gate and holler to Judy Pineau till she comes out,” suggested Felix.

Accordingly, we went and “hollered,” with a right good will. We were much taken aback to find that Mrs. Ray came to the gate instead of Judy, and rather sourly demanded what we were yelling about. When she heard our news, however, she had the decency to say she was glad, and to promise she would convey the good tidings to Sara—“who is already in bed, where all children of her age should be,” added Mrs. Ray severely.

WE had no intention of going to bed for a good two hours yet. Instead, after devoutly thanking goodness that our grown-ups, in spite of some imperfections, were not of the Mrs. Ray type, we betook ourselves to the granary, lighted a huge lantern which Dan had made out of a turnip, and proceeded to devour all the apples we might have eaten through the day but had not. We were a blithe little crew, sitting there in the light of our goblin lantern. We had in very truth been given beauty for ashes and the oil of joy for mourning. Life was as a red rose once more.

“I’m going to make a big batch of patty-pans, first thing in the morning,” said Felicity jubilantly. “Isn’t it queer? Last night I felt just like praying, and tonight I feel just like cooking.”

“We mustn’t forget to thank God for making Peter better,” said Cecily, as we finally went to the house.

“Do you s’pose Peter wouldn’t have got better anyway?” said Dan.

“Oh, Dan, what makes you ask such questions?” exclaimed Cecily in real distress.

“I dunno,” said Dan. “They just kind of come into my head, like. But of course I mean to thank God when I say my prayers to-night. That’s only decent.”

Once Peter was out of danger he recovered rapidly, but he found his convalescence rather tedious; and Aunt Olivia suggested to us one day that we write a “compound letter” to amuse him, until he could come to the window and talk to us from a safe distance. The idea appealed to us; and, the day being Saturday and the apples all picked, we betook ourselves to the orchard to compose our epistles, Cecily having first sent word by a convenient caller to Sara Ray, that she, too, might have a letter ready. Later, I, having at that time a mania for preserving all documents relating to our life in Carlisle, copied those letters in the blank pages at the back of my dream book. Hence I can reproduce them verbatim, with the bouquet they have retained through all the long years since they were penned in that autumnal orchard on the hill, with its fading leaves and frosted grasses, and the “mild, delightsome melancholy” of the late October day enfolding.

Cecily’s Letter

“DEAR PETER:—I am so very glad and thankful that you are going to get better. We were so afraid you would not last Tuesday, and we felt dreadful, even Felicity. We all prayed for you. I think the others have stopped now, but I keep it up every night still, for fear you might have a relaps. (I don’t know if that is spelled right. I haven’t the dixonary handy, and if I ask the others Felicity will laugh at me, though she cannot spell lots of words herself.) I am saving some of the Honourable Mr. Whalen’s pears for you. I’ve got them hid where nobody can find them. There’s only a dozen because Dan et all the rest, but I guess you will like them. We have got all the apples picked, and are all ready to take the measles now, if we have to, but I hope we won’t. If we have to, though, I’d rather catch them from you than from any one else, because we are acquainted with you. If I do take the measles and anything happens to me Felicity is to have my cherry vase. I’d rather give it to the Story Girl, but Dan says it ought to be kept in the family, even if Felicity is a crank. I haven’t anything else valuable, since I gave Sara Ray my forget-me-not jug, but if you would like anything I’ve got let me know and I’ll leave instructions for you to have it. The Story Girl has told us some splendid stories lately. I wish I was clever like her. Ma says it doesn’t matter if you’re not clever as long as you are good, but I am not even very good.

“I think this is all my news, except that I want to tell you how much we all think of you, Peter. When we heard you were sick we all said nice things about you, but we were afraid it was too late, and I said if you got better I’d tell you. It is easier to write it than to tell it out to your face. We think you are smart and polite and obliging and a great worker and a gentleman.

“你真正的朋友，

“Cecily King.

“P.S. If you answer my letter don’t say anything about the pears, because I don’t want Dan to find out there’s any left. C. K.”

Felicity’s Letter

“DEAR PETER:—Aunt Olivia says for us all to write a compound letter to cheer you up. We are all awful glad you are getting better. It gave us an awful scare when we heard you were going to die. But you will soon be all right and able to get out again. Be careful you don’t catch cold. I am going to bake some nice things for you and send them over, now that the doctor says you can eat them. And I’ll send you my rosebud plate to eat off of. I’m only lending it, you know, not giving it. I let very few people use it because it is my greatest treasure. Mind you don’t break it. Aunt Olivia must always wash it, not your mother.

“I do hope the rest of us won’t catch the measles. It must look horrid to have red spots all over your face. We all feel pretty well yet. The Story Girl says as many queer things as ever. Felix thinks he is getting thin, but he is fatter than ever, and no wonder, with all the apples he eats. He has give up trying to eat the bitter apples at last. Beverley has grown half an inch since July, by the mark on the hall door, and he is awful pleased about it. I told him I guessed the magic seed was taking effect at last, and he got mad. He never gets mad at anything the Story Girl says, and yet she is so sarkastic by times. Dan is pretty hard to get along with as usul, but I try to bear pashently with him. Cecily is well and says she isn’t going to curl her hair any more. She is so conscienshus. I am glad my hair curls of itself, ain’t you?

“We haven’t seen Sara Ray since you got sick. She is awful lonesome, and Judy says she cries nearly all the time but that is nothing new. I’m awful sorry for Sara but I’m glad I’m not her. She is going to write you a letter too. You’ll let me see what she puts in it, won’t you? You’d better take some Mexican Tea now. It’s a great blood purifyer.

“I am going to get a lovely dark blue dress for the winter. It is ever so much prettier than Sara Ray’s brown one. Sara Ray’s mother has no taste. The Story Girl’s father is sending her a new red dress, and a red velvet cap from Paris. She is so fond of red. I can’t bear it, it looks so common. Mother says I can get a velvet hood too. Cecily says she doesn’t believe it’s right to wear velvet when it’s so expensive and the heathen are crying for the gospel. She got that idea from a Sunday School paper but I am going to get my hood all the same.

“Well, Peter, I have no more news so I will close for this time.

“hoping you will soon be quite well, I remain

“yours sincerely,

“Felicity King.

“P.S. The Story Girl peeked over my shoulder and says I ought to have signed it ‘yours affeckshunately,’ but I know better, because the 家庭指南 has told lots of times how you should sign yourself when you are writing to a young man who is only a friend. F. K.”

Felix’ Letter

“DEAR PETER:—I am awful glad you are getting better. We all felt bad when we thought you wouldn’t, but I felt worse than the others because we hadn’t been on very good terms lately and I had said mean things about you. I’m sorry and, Peter, you can pray for anything you like and I won’t ever object again. I’m glad Uncle Alec interfered and stopped the fight. If I had licked you and you had died of the measles it would have been a dreadful thing.

“We have all the apples in and haven’t much to do just now and we are having lots of fun but we wish you were here to join in. I’m a lot thinner than I was. I guess working so hard picking apples is a good thing to make you thin. The girls are all well. Felicity puts on as many airs as ever, but she makes great things to eat. I have had some splendid dreams since we gave up writing them down. That is always the way. We ain’t going to school till we’re sure we are not going to have the measles. This is all I can think of, so I will draw to a close. Remember, you can pray for anything you like. FELIX KING.”

Sara Ray’s Letter

“DEAR PETER:—I never wrote to A BOY before, so PLEASE excuse ALL mistakes. I am SO glad you are getting better. We were SO afraid you were GOING TO DIE. I CRIED ALL NIGHT about it. But now that you are OUT OF DANGER will you tell me WHAT IT REALLY FEELS LIKE to think you are going to die? Does it FEEL QUEER? Were you VERY badly frightened?

“Ma won’t let me go up the hill AT ALL now. I would DIE if it was not for Judy Pinno. (The French names are SO HARD TO SPELL.) JUDY IS VERY OBLIGING and I feel that she SIMPATHISES WITH ME. In my LONELY HOURS I read my dream book and Cecily’s old letters and they are SUCH A COMFORT to me. I have been reading one of the school library books too. I is PRETTY GOOD but I wish they had got more LOVE STORIES because they are so exciting. But the master would not let them.

“If you had DIED, Peter, and YOUR FATHER had heard it wouldn’t he have FELT DREADFUL? We are having BEAUTIFUL WEATHER and the seenary is fine since the leaves turned. I think there is nothing so pretty as Nature after all.

“I hope ALL DANGER from the measles will soon be over and we can ALL MEET AGAIN AT THE HOME ON THE HILL. Till then FAREWELL.

“你真正的朋友，

“Sara Ray.

“P. S. Don’t let Felicity see this letter. S. R.”

Dan’s Letter

“DEAR OLD PETE:—Awful glad you cheated the doctor. I thought you weren’t the kind to turn up your toes so easy. You should of heard the girls crying.

“They’re all getting their winter finery now and the talk about it would make you sick. The Story Girl is getting hers from Paris and Felicity is awful jealous though she pretends she isn’t. I can see through her.

“Kitt Mar was up here Thursday to see the girls. She’s had the measles so she isn’t scared. She’s a great girl to laugh. I like a girl that laughs, don’t you?

“We had a call from Peg Bowen yesterday. You should of seen the Story Girl hustling Pat out of the way, for all she says she don’t believe he was bewitched. Peg had your rheumatism ring on and the Story Girl’s blue beads and Sara Ray’s lace soed across the front of her dress. She wanted some tobacco and some pickles. Ma gave her some pickles but said we didn’t have no tobacco and Peg went off mad but I guess she wouldn’t bewitch anything on account of the pickles.

“I ain’t any hand to write letters so I guess I’ll stop. Hope you’ll be out soon. DAN.”

The Story Girl’s Letter

“DEAR PETER:—Oh, how glad I am that you are getting better! Those days when we thought you wouldn’t were the hardest of my whole life. It seemed too dreadful to be true that perhaps you would die. And then when we heard you were going to get better that seemed too good to be true. Oh, Peter, hurry up and get well, for we are having such good times and we miss you so much. I have coaxed Uncle Alec not to burn his potato stalks till you are well, because I remember how you always liked to see the potato stalks burn. Uncle Alec consented, though Aunt Janet said it was high time they were burned. Uncle Roger burned his last night and it was such fun.

“Pat is splendid. He has never had a sick spell since that bad one. I would send him over to be company for you, but Aunt Janet says no, because he might carry the measles back. I don’t see how he could, but we must obey Aunt Janet. She is very good to us all, but I know she does not approve of me. She says I’m my father’s own child. I know that doesn’t mean anything complimentary because she looked so queer when she saw that I had heard her, but I don’t care. I’m glad I’m like father. I had a splendid letter from him this week, with the darlingest pictures in it. He is painting a new picture which is going to make him famous. I wonder what Aunt Janet will say then.

“Do you know, Peter, yesterday I thought I saw the Family Ghost at last. I was coming through the gap in the hedge, and I saw somebody in blue standing under Uncle Alec’s tree. How my heart beat! My hair should have stood up on end with terror but it didn’t. I felt to see, and it was lying down quite flat. But it was only a visitor after all. I don’t know whether I was glad or disappointed. I don’t think it would be a pleasant experience to see the ghost. But after I had seen it think what a heroine I would be!

“Oh, Peter, what do you think? I have got acquainted with the Awkward Man at last. I never thought it would be so easy. Yesterday Aunt Olivia wanted some ferns, so I went back to the maple woods to get them for her, and I found some lovely ones by the spring. And while I was sitting there, looking into the spring who should come along but the Awkward Man himself. He sat right down beside me and began to talk. I never was so surprised in my life. We had a very interesting talk, and I told him two of my best stories, and a great many of my secrets into the bargain. They may say what they like, but he was not one bit shy or awkward, and he has beautiful eyes. He did not tell me any of his secrets, but I believe he will some day. Of course I never said a word about his Alice-room. But I gave him a hint about his little brown book. I said I loved poetry and often felt like writing it, and then I said, ‘Do you ever feel like that, Mr. Dale?’ He said, yes, he sometimes felt that way, but he did not mention the brown book. I thought he might have. But after all I don’t like people who tell you everything the first time you meet them, like Sara Ray. When he went away he said, ‘I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again,’ just as seriously and politely as if I was a grown-up young lady. I am sure he could never have said it if I had been really grown up. I told him it was likely he would and that he wasn’t to mind if I had a longer skirt on next time, because I’d be just the same person.

“I told the children a beautiful new fairy story to-day. I made them go to the spruce wood to hear it. A spruce wood is the proper place to tell fairy stories in. Felicity says she can’t see that it makes any difference where you tell them, but oh, it does. I wish you had been there to hear it too, but when you are well I will tell it over again for you.

“I am going to call the southernwood ‘appleringie’ after this. Beverley says that is what they call it in Scotland, and I think it sounds so much more poetical than southernwood. Felicity says the right name is ‘Boy’s Love,’ but I think that sounds silly.

“Oh, Peter, shadows are such pretty things. The orchard is full of them this very minute. Sometimes they are so still you would think them asleep. Then they go laughing and skipping. Outside, in the oat field, they are always chasing each other. They are the wild shadows. The shadows in the orchard are the tame shadows.

“Everything seems to be rather tired growing except the spruces and chrysanthemums in Aunt Olivia’s garden. The sunshine is so thick and yellow and lazy, and the crickets sing all day long. The birds are nearly all gone and most of the maple leaves have fallen.

“Just to make you laugh I’ll write you a little story I heard Uncle Alec telling last night. It was about Elder Frewen’s grandfather taking a pair of rope reins to lead a piano home. Everybody laughed except Aunt Janet. Old Mr. Frewen was HER grandfather too, and she wouldn’t laugh. One day when old Mr. Frewen was a young man of eighteen his father came home and said, ‘Sandy, I bought a piano at Simon Ward’s sale to-day. You’re to go to-morrow and bring it home.’ So next day Sandy started off on horseback with a pair of rope reins to lead the piano home. He thought it was some kind of livestock.

“And then Uncle Roger told about old Mark Ward who got up to make a speech at a church missionary social when he was drunk. (Of course he didn’t get drunk at the social. He went there that way.) And this was his speech.

“‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Chairman, I can’t express my thoughts on this grand subject of missions. It’s in this poor human critter’—patting himself on the breast—‘but he can’t git it out.’

“I’ll tell you these stories when you get well. I can tell them ever so much better than I can write them.

“I know Felicity is wondering why I’m writing such a long letter, so perhaps I’d better stop. If your mother reads it to you there is a good deal of it she may not understand, but I think your Aunt Jane would.

“I remain

“your very affectionate friend,

“Sara Stanley.”

I did not keep a copy of my own letter, and I have forgotten everything that was in it, except the first sentence, in which I told Peter I was awful glad he was getting better.

Peter’s delight on receiving our letters knew no bounds. He insisted on answering them and his letter, painstakingly disinfected, was duly delivered to us. Aunt Olivia had written it at his dictation, which was a gain, as far as spelling and punctuation went. But Peter’s individuality seemed merged and lost in Aunt Olivia’s big, dashing script. Not until the Story Girl read the letter to us in the granary by jack-o-lantern light, in a mimicry of Peter’s very voice, did we savour the real bouquet of it.

Peter’s Letter

“DEAR EVERYBODY, BUT ESPECIALLY FELICITY:—I was awful glad to get your letters. It makes you real important to be sick, but the time seems awful long when you’re getting better. Your letters were all great, but I liked Felicity’s best, and next to hers the Story Girl’s. Felicity, it will be awful good of you to send me things to eat and the rosebud plate. I’ll be awful careful of it. I hope you won’t catch the measles, for they are not nice, especially when they strike in, but you would look all right, even if you did have red spots on your face. I would like to try the Mexican Tea, because you want me to, but mother says no, she doesn’t believe in it, and Burtons Bitters are a great deal healthier. If I was you I would get the velvet hood all right. The heathen live in warm countries so they don’t want hoods.

“I’m glad you are still praying for me, Cecily, for you can’t trust the measles. And I’m glad you’re keeping you know what for me. I don’t believe anything will happen to you if you do take the measles; but if anything does I’d like that little red book of yours, The Safe Compass, just to remember you by. It’s such a good book to read on Sundays. It is interesting and religious, too. So is the Bible. I hadn’t quite finished the Bible before I took the measles, but ma is reading the last chapters to me. There’s an awful lot in that book. I can’t understand the whole of it, since I’m only a hired boy, but some parts are real easy.

“I’m awful glad you have such a good opinion of me. I don’t deserve it, but after this I’ll try to. I can’t tell you how I feel about all your kindness. I’m like the fellow the Story Girl wrote about who couldn’t get it out. I have the picture the Story Girl gave me for my sermon on the wall at the foot of my bed. I like to look at it, it looks so much like Aunt Jane.

“Felix, I’ve given up praying that I’d be the only one to eat the bitter apples, and I’ll never pray for anything like that again. It was a horrid mean prayer. I didn’t know it then, but after the measles struck in I found out it was. Aunt Jane wouldn’t have liked it. After this I’m going to pray prayers I needn’t be ashamed of.

“Sara Ray, I don’t know what it feels like to be going to die because I didn’t know I was going to die till I got better. Mother says I was luny most of the time after they struck in. It was just because they struck in I was luny. I ain’t luny naturally, Felicity. I will do what you asked in your postscript, Sara, although it will be hard.

“I’m glad Peg Bowen didn’t catch you, Dan. Maybe she bewitched me that night we were at her place, and that is why the measles struck in. I’m awful glad Mr. King is going to leave the potato stalks until I get well, and I’m obliged to the Story Girl for coaxing him. I guess she will find out about Alice yet. There were some parts of her letter I couldn’t see through, but when the measles strike in, they leave you stupid for a spell. Anyhow, it was a fine letter, and they were all fine, and I’m awful glad I have so many nice friends, even if I am only a hired boy. Perhaps I’d never have found it out if the measles hadn’t struck in. So I’m glad they did but I hope they never will again.

“你听话的仆人，

“Peter Craig.”

We celebrated the November day when Peter was permitted to rejoin us by a picnic in the orchard. Sara Ray was also allowed to come, under protest; and her joy over being among us once more was almost pathetic. She and Cecily cried in one another’s arms as if they had been parted for years.

We had a beautiful day for our picnic. November dreamed that it was May. The air was soft and mellow, with pale, aerial mists in the valleys and over the leafless beeches on the western hill. The sere stubble fields brooded in glamour, and the sky was pearly blue. The leaves were still thick on the apple trees, though they were russet hued, and the after-growth of grass was richly green, unharmed as yet by the nipping frosts of previous nights. The wind made a sweet, drowsy murmur in the boughs, as of bees among apple blossoms.

“It’s just like spring, isn’t it?” asked Felicity.

故事少女摇了摇头。

“No, not quite. It looks like spring, but it isn’t spring. It’s as if everything was resting—getting ready to sleep. In spring they’re getting ready to grow. Can’t you FEEL the difference?”

“I think it’s just like spring,” insisted Felicity.

In the sun-sweet place before the Pulpit Stone we boys had put up a board table. Aunt Janet allowed us to cover it with an old tablecloth, the worn places in which the girls artfully concealed with frost-whitened ferns. We had the kitchen dishes, and the table was gaily decorated with Cecily’s three scarlet geraniums and maple leaves in the cherry vase. As for the viands, they were fit for the gods on high Olympus. Felicity had spent the whole previous day and the forenoon of the picnic day in concocting them. Her crowning achievement was a rich little plum cake, on the white frosting of which the words “Welcome Back” were lettered in pink candies. This was put before Peter’s place, and almost overcame him.

“To think that you’d go to so much trouble for me!” he said, with a glance of adoring gratitude at Felicity. Felicity got all the gratitude, although the Story Girl had originated the idea and seeded the raisins and beaten the eggs, while Cecily had trudged all the way to Mrs. Jameson’s little shop below the church to buy the pink candies. But that is the way of the world.

“We ought to have grace,” said Felicity, as we sat down at the festal board. “Will any one say it?”

She looked at me, but I blushed to the roots of my hair and shook my head sheepishly. An awkward pause ensued; it looked as if we would have to proceed without grace, when Felix suddenly shut his eyes, bent his head, and said a very good grace without any appearance of embarrassment. We looked at him when it was over with an increase of respect.

“Where on earth did you learn that, Felix?” I asked.

“It’s the grace Uncle Alec says at every meal,” answered Felix.

We felt rather ashamed of ourselves. Was it possible that we had paid so little attention to Uncle Alec’s grace that we did not recognize it when we heard it on other lips?

“Now,” said Felicity jubilantly, “let’s eat everything up.”

In truth, it was a merry little feast. We had gone without our dinners, in order to “save our appetites,” and we did ample justice to Felicity’s good things. Paddy sat on the Pulpit Stone and watched us with great yellow eyes, knowing that tidbits would come his way later on. Many witty things were said—or at least we thought them witty—and uproarious was the laughter. Never had the old King orchard known a blither merrymaking or lighter hearts.

The picnic over, we played games until the early falling dusk, and then we went with Uncle Alec to the back field to burn the potato stalks—the crowning delight of the day.

The stalks were in heaps all over the field, and we were allowed the privilege of setting fire to them. ‘Twas glorious! In a few minutes the field was alight with blazing bonfires, over which rolled great, pungent clouds of smoke. From pile to pile we ran, shrieking with delight, to poke each up with a long stick and watch the gush of rose-red sparks stream off into the night. In what a whirl of smoke and firelight and wild, fantastic, hurtling shadows we were!

When we grew tired of our sport we went to the windward side of the field and perched ourselves on the high pole fence that skirted a dark spruce wood, full of strange, furtive sounds. Over us was a great, dark sky, blossoming with silver stars, and all around lay dusky, mysterious reaches of meadow and wood in the soft, empurpled night. Away to the east a shimmering silveryness beneath a palace of aerial cloud foretokened moonrise. But directly before us the potato field, with its wreathing smoke and sullen flames, the gigantic shadow of Uncle Alec crossing and recrossing it, reminded us of Peter’s famous description of the bad place, and probably suggested the Story Girl’s remark.

“I know a story,” she said, infusing just the right shade of weirdness into her voice, “about a man who saw the devil. Now, what’s the matter, Felicity?”

“I can never get used to the way you mention the—the—that name,” complained Felicity. “To hear you speak of the Old Scratch any one would think he was just a common person.”

“Never mind. Tell us the story,” I said curiously.

“It is about Mrs. John Martin’s uncle at Markdale,” said the Story Girl. “I heard Uncle Roger telling it the other night. He didn’t know I was sitting on the cellar hatch outside the window, or I don’t suppose he would have told it. Mrs. Martin’s uncle’s name was William Cowan, and he has been dead for twenty years; but sixty years ago he was a young man, and a very wild, wicked young man. He did everything bad he could think of, and never went to church, and he laughed at everything religious, even the devil. He didn’t believe there was a devil at all. One beautiful summer Sunday evening his mother pleaded with him to go to church with her, but he would not. He told her that he was going fishing instead, and when church time came he swaggered past the church, with his fishing rod over his shoulder, singing a godless song. Half way between the church and the harbour there was a thick spruce wood, and the path ran through it. When William Cowan was half way through it SOMETHING came out of the wood and walked beside him.”

I have never heard anything more horribly suggestive than that innocent word “something,” as enunciated by the Story Girl. I felt Cecily’s hand, icy cold, clutching mine.

“What—what—was IT like?” whispered Felix, curiosity getting the better of his terror.

“IT was tall, and black, and hairy,” said the Story Girl, her eyes glowing with uncanny intensity in the red glare of the fires, “and IT lifted one great, hairy hand, with claws on the end of it, and clapped William Cowan, first on one shoulder and then on the other, and said, ‘Good sport to you, brother.’ William Cowan gave a horrible scream and fell on his face right there in the wood. Some of the men around the church door heard the scream, and they rushed down to the wood. They saw nothing but William Cowan, lying like a dead man on the path. They took him up and carried him home; and when they undressed him to put him to bed, there, on each shoulder, was the mark of a big hand, BURNED INTO THE FLESH. It was weeks before the burns healed, and the scars never went away. Always, as long as William Cowan lived, he carried on his shoulders the prints of the devil’s hand.”

I really do not know how we should ever have got home, had we been left to our own devices. We were cold with fright. How could we turn our backs on the eerie spruce wood, out of which SOMETHING might pop at any moment? How cross those long, shadowy fields between us and our rooftree? How venture through the darkly mysterious bracken hollow?

Fortunately, Uncle Alec came along at this crisis and said he thought we’d better come home now, since the fires were nearly out. We slid down from the fence and started, taking care to keep close together and in front of Uncle Alec.

“I don’t believe a word of that yarn,” said Dan, trying to speak with his usual incredulity.

“I don’t see how you can help believing it,” said Cecily. “It isn’t as if it was something we’d read of, or that happened far away. It happened just down at Markdale, and I’ve seen that very spruce wood myself.”

“Oh, I suppose William Cowan got a fright of some kind,” conceded Dan, “but I don’t believe he saw the devil.”

“Old Mr. Morrison at Lower Markdale was one of the men who undressed him, and he remembers seeing the marks,” said the Story Girl triumphantly.

“How did William Cowan behave afterwards?” I asked.

“He was a changed man,” said the Story Girl solemnly. “Too much changed. He never was known to laugh again, or even smile. He became a very religious man, which was a good thing, but he was dreadfully gloomy and thought everything pleasant sinful. He wouldn’t even eat any more than was actually necessary to keep him alive. Uncle Roger says that if he had been a Roman Catholic he would have become a monk, but, as he was a Presbyterian, all he could do was to turn into a crank.”

“Yes, but your Uncle Roger was never clapped on the shoulder and called brother by the devil,” said Peter. “If he had, he mightn’t have been so precious jolly afterwards himself.”

“I do wish to goodness,” said Felicity in exasperation, “that you’d stop talking of the—the—of such subjects in the dark. I’m so scared now that I keep thinking father’s steps behind us are SOMETHING’S. Just think, my own father!”

The Story Girl slipped her arm through Felicity’s.

“Never mind,” she said soothingly. “I’ll tell you another story—such a beautiful story that you’ll forget all about the devil.”

She told us one of Hans Andersen’s most exquisite tales; and the magic of her voice charmed away all our fear, so that when we reached the bracken hollow, a lake of shadow surrounded by the silver shore of moonlit fields, we all went through it without a thought of His Satanic Majesty at all. And beyond us, on the hill, the homelight was glowing from the farmhouse window like a beacon of old loves.

November wakened from her dream of May in a bad temper. The day after the picnic a cold autumn rain set in, and we got up to find our world a drenched, wind-writhen place, with sodden fields and dour skies. The rain was weeping on the roof as if it were shedding the tears of old sorrows; the willow by the gate tossed its gaunt branches wildly, as if it were some passionate, spectral thing, wringing its fleshless hands in agony; the orchard was haggard and uncomely; nothing seemed the same except the staunch, trusty, old spruces.

It was Friday, but we were not to begin going to school again until Monday, so we spent the day in the granary, sorting apples and hearing tales. In the evening the rain ceased, the wind came around to the northwest, freezing suddenly, and a chilly yellow sunset beyond the dark hills seemed to herald a brighter morrow.

Felicity and the Story Girl and I walked down to the post-office for the mail, along a road where fallen leaves went eddying fitfully up and down before us in weird, uncanny dances of their own. The evening was full of eerie sounds—the creaking of fir boughs, the whistle of the wind in the tree-tops, the vibrations of strips of dried bark on the rail fences. But we carried summer and sunshine in our hearts, and the bleak unloveliness of the outer world only intensified our inner radiance.

Felicity wore her new velvet hood, with a coquettish little collar of white fur about her neck. Her golden curls framed her lovely face, and the wind stung the pink of her cheeks to crimson. On my left hand walked the Story Girl, her red cap on her jaunty brown head. She scattered her words along the path like the pearls and diamonds of the old fairy tale. I remember that I strutted along quite insufferably, for we met several of the Carlisle boys and I felt that I was an exceptionally lucky fellow to have such beauty on one side and such charm on the other.

There was one of father’s thin letters for Felix, a fat, foreign letter for the Story Girl, addressed in her father’s minute handwriting, a drop letter for Cecily from some school friend, with “In Haste” written across the corner, and a letter for Aunt Janet, postmarked Montreal.

“I can’t think who that is from,” said Felicity. “Nobody in Montreal ever writes to mother. Cecily’s letter is from Em Frewen. She always puts ‘In Haste’ on her letters, no matter what is in them.”

When we reached home, Aunt Janet opened and read her Montreal letter. Then she laid it down and looked about her in astonishment.

“Well, did ever any mortal!” she said.

“What in the world is the matter?” said Uncle Alec.

“This letter is from James Ward’s wife in Montreal,” said Aunt Janet solemnly. “Rachel Ward is dead. And she told James’ wife to write to me and tell me to open the old blue chest.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Dan.

“Donald King,” said his mother severely, “Rachel Ward was your relation and she is dead. What do you mean by such behaviour?”

“I never was acquainted with her,” said Dan sulkily. “And I wasn’t hurrahing because she is dead. I hurrahed because that blue chest is to be opened at last.”

“So poor Rachel is gone,” said Uncle Alec. “She must have been an old woman—seventy-five I suppose. I remember her as a fine, blooming young woman. Well, well, and so the old chest is to be opened at last. What is to be done with its contents?”

“Rachel left instructions about them,” answered Aunt Janet, referring to the letter. “The wedding dress and veil and letters are to be burned. There are two jugs in it which are to be sent to James’ wife. The rest of the things are to be given around among the connection. Each members is to have one, ‘to remember her by.’”

“Oh, can’t we open it right away this very night?” said Felicity eagerly.

“No, indeed!” Aunt Janet folded up the letter decidedly. “That chest has been locked up for fifty years, and it’ll stand being locked up one more night. You children wouldn’t sleep a wink to-night if we opened it now. You’d go wild with excitement.”

“I’m sure I won’t sleep anyhow,” said Felicity. “Well, at least you’ll open it the first thing in the morning, won’t you, ma?”

“No, I’ll do nothing of the sort,” was Aunt Janet’s pitiless decree. “I want to get the work out of the way first—and Roger and Olivia will want to be here, too. We’ll say ten o’clock to-morrow forenoon.”

“That’s sixteen whole hours yet,” sighed Felicity.

“I’m going right over to tell the Story Girl,” said Cecily. “Won’t she be excited!”

We were all excited. We spent the evening speculating on the possible contents of the chest, and Cecily dreamed miserably that night that the moths had eaten everything in it.

The morning dawned on a beautiful world. A very slight fall of snow had come in the night—just enough to look like a filmy veil of lace flung over the dark evergreens, and the hard frozen ground. A new blossom time seemed to have revisited the orchard. The spruce wood behind the house appeared to be woven out of enchantment. There is nothing more beautiful than a thickly growing wood of firs lightly powdered with new-fallen snow. As the sun remained hidden by gray clouds, this fairy-beauty lasted all day.

The Story Girl came over early in the morning, and Sara Ray, to whom faithful Cecily had sent word, was also on hand. Felicity did not approve of this.

“Sara Ray isn’t any relation to our family,” she scolded to Cecily, “and she has no right to be present.”

“She’s a particular friend of mine,” said Cecily with dignity. “We have her in everything, and it would hurt her feelings dreadfully to be left out of this. Peter is no relation either, but he is going to be here when we open it, so why shouldn’t Sara?”

“Peter ain’t a member of the family YET, but maybe he will be some day. Hey, Felicity?” said Dan.

“You’re awful smart, aren’t you, Dan King?” said Felicity, reddening. “Perhaps you’d like to send for Kitty Marr, too—though she DOES laugh at your big mouth.”

“It seems as if ten o’clock would never come,” sighed the Story Girl. “The work is all done, and Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger are here, and the chest might just as well be opened right away.”

“Mother SAID ten o’clock and she’ll stick to it,” said Felicity crossly. “It’s only nine now.”

“Let us put the clock on half an hour,” said the Story Girl. “The clock in the hall isn’t going, so no one will know the difference.”

We all looked at each other.

“I wouldn’t dare,” said Felicity irresolutely.

“Oh, if that’s all, I’ll do it,” said the Story Girl.

When ten o’clock struck Aunt Janet came into the kitchen, remarking innocently that it hadn’t seemed anytime since nine. We must have looked horribly guilty, but none of the grown-ups suspected anything. Uncle Alec brought in the axe, and pried off the cover of the old blue chest, while everybody stood around in silence.

Then came the unpacking. It was certainly an interesting performance. Aunt Janet and Aunt Olivia took everything out and laid it on the kitchen table. We children were forbidden to touch anything, but fortunately we were not forbidden the use of our eyes and tongues.

“There are the pink and gold vases Grandmother King gave her,” said Felicity, as Aunt Olivia unwrapped from their tissue paper swathings a pair of slender, old-fashioned, twisted vases of pink glass, over which little gold leaves were scattered. “Aren’t they handsome?”

“And oh,” exclaimed Cecily in delight, “there’s the china fruit basket with the apple on the handle. Doesn’t it look real? I’ve thought so much about it. Oh, mother, please let me hold it for a minute. I’ll be as careful as careful.”

“There comes the china set Grandfather King gave her,” said the Story Girl wistfully. “Oh, it makes me feel sad. Think of all the hopes that Rachel Ward must have put away in this chest with all her pretty things.”

Following these, came a quaint little candlestick of blue china, and the two jugs which were to be sent to James’ wife.

“They ARE handsome,” said Aunt Janet rather enviously. “They must be a hundred years old. Aunt Sara Ward gave them to Rachel, and she had them for at least fifty years. I should have thought one would have been enough for James’ wife. But of course we must do just as Rachel wished. I declare, here’s a dozen tin patty pans!”

“Tin patty pans aren’t very romantic,” said the Story Girl discontentedly.

“I notice that you are as fond as any one of what is baked in them,” said Aunt Janet. “I’ve heard of those patty pans. An old servant Grandmother King had gave them to Rachel. Now we are coming to the linen. That was Uncle Edward Ward’s present. How yellow it has grown.”

We children were not greatly interested in the sheets and tablecloths and pillow-cases which now came out of the capacious depths of the old blue chest. But Aunt Olivia was quite enraptured over them.

“What sewing!” she said. “Look, Janet, you’d almost need a magnifying glass to see the stitches. And the dear, old-fashioned pillow-slips with buttons on them!”

“Here are a dozen handkerchiefs,” said Aunt Janet. “Look at the initial in the corner of each. Rachel learned that stitch from a nun in Montreal. It looks as if it was woven into the material.”

“Here are her quilts,” said Aunt Olivia. “Yes, there is the blue and white counterpane Grandmother Ward gave her—and the Rising Sun quilt her Aunt Nancy made for her—and the braided rug. The colours are not faded one bit. I want that rug, Janet.”

Underneath the linen were Rachel Ward’s wedding clothes. The excitement of the girls waxed red hot over these. There was a Paisley shawl in the wrappings in which it had come from the store, and a wide scarf of some yellowed lace. There was the embroidered petticoat which had cost Felicity such painful blushes, and a dozen beautifully worked sets of the fine muslin “undersleeves” which had been the fashion in Rachel Ward’s youth.

“This was to have been her appearing out dress,” said Aunt Olivia, lifting out a shot green silk. “It is all cut to pieces—but what a pretty soft shade it was! Look at the skirt, Janet. How many yards must it measure around?”

“Hoopskirts were in then,” said Aunt Janet. “I don’t see her wedding hat here. I was always told that she packed it away, too.”

“So was I. But she couldn’t have. It certainly isn’t here. I have heard that the white plume on it cost a small fortune. Here is her black silk mantle. It seems like sacrilege to meddle with these clothes.”

“Don’t be foolish, Olivia. They must be unpacked at least. And they must all be burned since they have cut so badly. This purple cloth dress is quite good, however. It can be made over nicely, and it would become you very well, Olivia.”

“No, thank you,” said Aunt Olivia, with a little shudder. “I should feel like a ghost. Make it over for yourself, Janet.”

“Well, I will, if you don’t want it. I am not troubled with fancies. That seems to be all except this box. I suppose the wedding dress is in it.”

“Oh,” breathed the girls, crowding about Aunt Olivia, as she lifted out the box and cut the cord around it. Inside was lying a dress of soft silk, that had once been white but was now yellowed with age, and, enfolding it like a mist, a long, white bridal veil, redolent with some strange, old-time perfume that had kept its sweetness through all the years.

“Poor Rachel Ward,” said Aunt Olivia softly. “Here is her point lace handkerchief. She made it herself. It is like a spider’s web. Here are the letters Will Montague wrote her. And here,” she added, taking up a crimson velvet case with a tarnished gilt clasp, “are their photographs—his and hers.”

We looked eagerly at the daguerreotypes in the old case.

“Why, Rachel Ward wasn’t a bit pretty!” exclaimed the Story Girl in poignant disappointment.

No, Rachel Ward was not pretty, that had to be admitted. The picture showed a fresh young face, with strongly marked, irregular features, large black eyes, and black curls hanging around the shoulders in old-time style.

“Rachel wasn’t pretty,” said Uncle Alec, “but she had a lovely colour, and a beautiful smile. She looks far too sober in that picture.”

“She has a beautiful neck and bust,” said Aunt Olivia critically.

“Anyhow, Will Montague was really handsome,” said the Story Girl.

“A handsome rogue,” growled Uncle Alec. “I never liked him. I was only a little chap of ten but I saw through him. Rachel Ward was far too good for him.”

We would dearly have liked to get a peep into the letters, too. But Aunt Olivia would not allow that. They must be burned unread, she declared. She took the wedding dress and veil, the picture case, and the letters away with her. The rest of the things were put back into the chest, pending their ultimate distribution. Aunt Janet gave each of us boys a handkerchief. The Story Girl got the blue candlestick, and Felicity and Cecily each got a pink and gold vase. Even Sara Ray was made happy by the gift of a little china plate, with a loudly coloured picture of Moses and Aaron before Pharaoh in the middle of it. Moses wore a scarlet cloak, while Aaron disported himself in bright blue. Pharaoh was arrayed in yellow. The plate had a scalloped border with a wreath of green leaves around it.

“I shall never use it to eat off,” said Sara rapturously. “I’ll put it up on the parlour mantelpiece.”

“I don’t see much use in having a plate just for ornament,” said Felicity.

“It’s nice to have something interesting to look at,” retorted Sara, who felt that the soul must have food as well as the body.

“I’m going to get a candle for my candlestick, and use it every night to go to bed with,” said the Story Girl. “And I’ll never light it without thinking of poor Rachel Ward. But I DO wish she had been pretty.”

“Well,” said Felicity, with a glance at the clock, “it’s all over, and it has been very interesting. But that clock has got to be put back to the right time some time through the day. I don’t want bedtime coming a whole half-hour before it ought to.”

In the afternoon, when Aunt Janet was over at Uncle Roger’s, seeing him and Aunt Olivia off to town, the clock was righted. The Story Girl and Peter came over to stay all night with us, and we made taffy in the kitchen, which the grown-ups kindly gave over to us for that purpose.

“Of course it was very interesting to see the old chest unpacked,” said the Story Girl as she stirred the contents of a saucepan vigorously. “But now that it is over I believe I am sorry that it is opened. It isn’t mysterious any longer. We know all about it now, and we can never imagine what things are in it any more.”

“It’s better to know than to imagine,” said Felicity.

“Oh, no, it isn’t,” said the Story Girl quickly. “When you know things you have to go by facts. But when you just dream about things there’s nothing to hold you down.”

“You’re letting the taffy scorch, and THAT’S a fact you’d better go by,” said Felicity sniffing. “Haven’t you got a nose?”

When we went to bed, that wonderful white enchantress, the moon, was making an elf-land of the snow-misted world outside. From where I lay I could see the sharp tops of the spruces against the silvery sky. The frost was abroad, and the winds were still and the land lay in glamour.

Across the hall, the Story Girl was telling Felicity and Cecily the old, old tale of Argive Helen and “evil-hearted Paris.”

“But that’s a bad story,” said Felicity when the tale was ended. “She left her husband and run away with another man.”

“I suppose it was bad four thousand years ago,” admitted the Story Girl. “But by this time the bad must have all gone out of it. It’s only the good that could last so long.”

Our summer was over. It had been a beautiful one. We had known the sweetness of common joys, the delight of dawns, the dream and glamour of noontides, the long, purple peace of carefree nights. We had had the pleasure of bird song, of silver rain on greening fields, of storm among the trees, of blossoming meadows, and of the converse of whispering leaves. We had had brotherhood with wind and star, with books and tales, and hearth fires of autumn. Ours had been the little, loving tasks of every day, blithe companionship, shared thoughts, and adventuring. Rich were we in the memory of those opulent months that had gone from us—richer than we then knew or suspected. And before us was the dream of spring. It is always safe to dream of spring. For it is sure to come; and if it be not just as we have pictured it, it will be infinitely sweeter.