The Story Girl E-Book

L.M. Montgomery

• Herausgeber: Youcanprint
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The Story Girl said that once upon a time. Felix and I, on The May morning when we left Toronto for Prince Edward Island, had not Then heard her say it, and, indeed, were but barely aware of The existence of such a person as The Story Girl. We did not know her at all under that name. We knew only that a cousin, Sara Stanley, whose mother, our Aunt Felicity, was dead, was living down on The Island with Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia King, on a farm adjoining The old King homestead in Carlisle. We supposed we should get acquainted with her when we reached There, and we had an idea, from Aunt Olivia's letters to faTher, that she would be quite a jolly creature. Further than that we did not think about her. We were more interested in Felicity and Cecily and Dan, who lived on The homestead and would Therefore be our roofmates for a season. But The spirit of The Story Girl's yet unuttered remark was thrilling in our hearts that morning, as The train pulled out of Toronto. We were faring forth on a long road; and, though we had some idea what would be at The end of it, There was enough glamour of The unknown about it to lend a wonderful charm to our speculations concerning it.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF OUR FATHERS

CHAPTER II. A QUEEN OF HEARTS

CHAPTER III. LEGENDS OF THE OLD ORCHARD

CHAPTER IV. THE WEDDING VEIL OF THE PROUD PRINCESS

CHAPTER V. PETER GOES TO CHURCH

CHAPTER VI. THE MYSTERY OF GOLDEN MILESTONE

CHAPTER VII. HOW BETTY SHERMAN WON A HUSBAND

CHAPTER VIII. A TRAGEDY OF CHILDHOOD

CHAPTER IX. MAGIC SEED

CHAPTER X. A DAUGHTER OF EVE

CHAPTER XI. THE STORY GIRL DOES PENANCE

CHAPTER XII. THE BLUE CHEST OF RACHEL WARD

CHAPTER XIII. AN OLD PROVERB WITH A NEW MEANING

CHAPTER XIV. FORBIDDEN FRUIT

CHAPTER XV. A DISOBEDIENT BROTHER

CHAPTER XVI. THE GHOSTLY BELL

CHAPTER XVII. THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING

CHAPTER XVIII. HOW KISSING WAS DISCOVERED

CHAPTER XIX. A DREAD PROPHECY

CHAPTER XX. THE JUDGMENT SUNDAY

CHAPTER XXI. DREAMERS OF DREAMS

CHAPTER XXII. THE DREAM BOOKS

CHAPTER XXIII. SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE ON

CHAPTER XXIV. THE BEWITCHMENT OF PAT

CHAPTER XXV. A CUP OF FAILURE

CHAPTER XXVI. PETER MAKES AN IMPRESSION

CHAPTER XXVII. THE ORDEAL OF BITTER APPLES

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE TALE OF THE RAINBOW BRIDGE

CHAPTER XXIX. THE SHADOW FEARED OF MAN

CHAPTER XXX. A COMPOUND LETTER

CHAPTER XXXI. ON THE EDGE OF LIGHT AND DARK

CHAPTER XXXII. THE OPENING OF THE BLUE CHEST

The Story Girl

L. M. Montgomery

© David De Angelis 2017 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF OUR FATHERS

“I do like a road, because you can be always wondering what is at the end of it.”

TheStory Girl said that once upon a time. Felix and I, on the May morning when we left Toronto for Prince Edward Island, had not then heard her say it, and, indeed, were but barely aware of the existence of such a person as the Story Girl. We did not know herat all under that name. We knew only that a cousin, Sara Stanley, whose mother, our Aunt Felicity, was dead, was living down on the Island with Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia King, on a farm adjoining the old King homestead in Carlisle. We supposed we shouldget acquainted with her when we reached there, and we had an idea, from Aunt Olivia’s letters to father, that she would be quite a jolly creature. Further than that we did not think about her. We were more interested in Felicity and Cecily and Dan, who lived on the homestead and would therefore be our roofmates for a season.

But the spirit of the Story Girl’s yet unuttered remark was thrilling in our hearts that morning, as the train pulled out of Toronto. We were faring forth on a long road; and, though we had some idea what would be at the end of it, there was enough glamour of the unknown about it to lend a wonderful charm to our speculations concerning it.

We were delighted at the thought of seeing father’s old home, and living among the haunts of his boyhood. He had talked so much to us about it, and described its scenes so often and so minutely, that he had inspired us with some of his own deep-seated affection for it—an affection that had never waned in all his years of exile. We had a vague feeling that we, somehow, belonged there, in that cradle of our family, though we had never seen it. We had always looked forward eagerly to the promised day when father would take us “down home,” to the old house with the spruces behind it and the famous “King orchard” before it—when we might ramble in “Uncle Stephen’s Walk,” drink from the deep well with the Chinese roof over it, stand on “the Pulpit Stone,” and eat apples from our “birthday trees.”

The time had come sooner than we had dared to hope; but father could not take us after all. His firm asked him to go to Rio de Janeiro that spring to take charge of their new branch there. It was too good a chance to lose, for father was a poor man and it meant promotion and increase of salary; but it also meant the temporary breaking up of our home. Our mother had died before either of us was old enough to remember her; father could not take us to Rio de Janeiro. In the end he decided to send us to Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet down on the homestead; and our housekeeper, who belonged to the Island and was now returning to it, took charge of us on the journey. I fear she had an anxious trip of it, poor woman! She was constantly in a quite justifiable terror lest we should be lost or killed; she must have felt great relief when she reached Charlottetown and handed us over to the keeping of Uncle Alec. Indeed, she said as much.

“The fat one isn’t so bad. He isn’t so quick to move and get out of your sight while you’re winking as the thin one. But the only safe way to travel withthose young ones would be to have ‘em both tied to you with a short rope—a MIGHTY short rope.”

“The fat one” was Felix, who was very sensitive about his plumpness. He was always taking exercises to make him thin, with the dismal result that he became fatter all the time. He vowed that he didn’t care; but he DID care terribly, and he glowered at Mrs. MacLaren in a most undutiful fashion. He had never liked her since the day she had told him he would soon be as broad as he was long.

For my own part, I wasrather sorry to see her going; and she cried over us and wished us well; but we had forgotten all about her by the time we reached the open country, driving along, one on either side of Uncle Alec, whom we loved from the moment we saw him. He was a small man, with thin, delicate features, close-clipped gray beard, and large, tired, blue eyes—father’s eyes over again. We knew that Uncle Alec was fond of children and was heart-glad to welcome “Alan’s boys.” We felt at home with him, and were not afraid to askhim questions on any subject that came uppermost in our minds. We became very good friends with him on that twenty-four mile drive.

Much to our disappointment it was dark when we reached Carlisle—too dark to see anything very distinctly, as we drove up the lane of the old King homestead on the hill. Behind us a young moon was hanging over southwestern meadows of spring-time peace, but all about us were the soft, moist shadows of a May night. We peered eagerly through the gloom.

“There’s the big willow, Bev,” whispered Felix excitedly, as we turned in at the gate.

There it was, in truth—the tree Grandfather King had planted when he returned one evening from ploughing in the brook field and stuck the willow switch he had used all day in the soft soil by the gate.

It had taken root and grown; our father and our uncles and aunts had played in its shadow; and now it was a massive thing, with a huge girth of trunk and great spreading boughs, each of them as large as a tree in itself.

“I’m going to climb it to-morrow,” I said joyfully.

Off to the right was a dim, branching place which we knew was the orchard; and on our left, among sibilant spruces and firs, was the old, whitewashed house—from which presently a light gleamed through an open door, and Aunt Janet, a big, bustling, sonsy woman, with full-blown peony cheeks, came to welcome us.

Soon after we were at supper in the kitchen, with its low, dark, raftered ceiling from which substantial hams and flitches of bacon were hanging. Everything was just as father haddescribed it. We felt that we had come home, leaving exile behind us.

Felicity, Cecily, and Dan were sitting opposite us, staring at us when they thought we would be too busy eating to see them. We tried to stare at them when THEY were eating; and as a result we were always catching each other at it and feeling cheap and embarrassed.

Dan was the oldest; he was my age—thirteen. He was a lean, freckled fellow with rather long, lank, brown hair and the shapely King nose. We recognized it at once. His mouth was his own, however, for it was like to no mouth on either the King or the Ward side; and nobody would have been anxious to claim it, for it was an undeniably ugly one—long andnarrow and twisted. But it could grin in friendly fashion, and both Felix and Ifelt that we were going to like Dan.

Felicity was twelve. She had been called after Aunt Felicity, who was the twin sister of Uncle Felix. Aunt Felicity and Uncle Felix, as father had often told us, had died on the same day, far apart, and were buried sideby side in the old Carlisle graveyard.

We had known from Aunt Olivia’s letters, that Felicity was the beauty of the connection, and we had been curious to see her on that account. She fully justified our expectations. She was plump and dimpled, with big,dark-blue, heavy-lidded eyes, soft, feathery, golden curls, and a pink and white skin—“the King complexion.” The Kings were noted for their noses and complexion. Felicity had also delightful hands and wrists. At every turn of them a dimple showed itself. It was a pleasure to wonder what her elbows must be like.

She was very nicely dressed in a pink print and a frilled muslin apron; and we understood, from something Dan said, that she had “dressed up” in honour of our coming. This made us feel quite important. So far as we knew, no feminine creatures had ever gone to the pains of dressing up on our account before.

Cecily, who was eleven, was pretty also—or would have been had Felicity not been there. Felicity rather took the colour from other girls. Cecily looked pale and thin beside her; but she had dainty little features, smooth brown hair of satin sheen, and mild brown eyes, with just a hint of demureness in them now and again. We remembered that Aunt Olivia had written to father that Cecily was a true Ward—she had no sense of humour. We did not know what this meant, but we thought it was not exactly complimentary.

Still, we were both inclined to think we would like Cecily better than Felicity. To be sure, Felicity was a stunning beauty. But, with the swiftand unerring intuition of childhood, which feels in a moment what it sometimes takes maturity much time to perceive, we realized that she was rather too well aware of her good looks. In brief, we saw that Felicity was vain.

“It’s a wonder the Story Girl isn’t over to see you,” said Uncle Alec. “She’s been quite wild with excitement about your coming.”

“She hasn’t been very well all day,” explained Cecily, “and Aunt Olivia wouldn’t let her come out in the night air. She made her go to bed instead. The StoryGirl was awfully disappointed.”

“Who is the Story Girl?” asked Felix.

“Oh, Sara—Sara Stanley. We call her the Story Girl partly because she’s such a hand to tell stories—oh, I can’t begin to describe it—and partly because Sara Ray, who lives at the foot ofthe hill, often comes up to play with us, and it is awkward to have two girls of the same name in the same crowd. Besides, Sara Stanley doesn’t like her name and she’d rather be called the Story Girl.”

Dan speaking for the first time, rather sheepishly volunteered the information that Peter had also been intending to come over but had to go home to take some flour to his mother instead.

“Peter?” I questioned. I had never heard of any Peter.

“He is your Uncle Roger’s handy boy,” said Uncle Alec. “His name is Peter Craig, and he is a real smart little chap. But he’s got his share of mischief, that same lad.”

“He wants to be Felicity’s beau,” said Dan slyly.

“Don’t talk silly nonsense, Dan,” said Aunt Janet severely.

Felicity tossed her golden head and shot anunsisterly glance at Dan.

“I wouldn’t be very likely to have a hired boy for a beau,” she observed.

We saw that her anger was real, not affected. Evidently Peter was not an admirer of whom Felicity was proud.

We were very hungry boys; and when we had eaten all we could—and oh, what suppers Aunt Janet always spread!—we discovered that we were very tired also—too tired to go out and explore our ancestral domains, as we would have liked to do, despite the dark.

We were quite willing to go to bed; and presently we found ourselves tucked away upstairs in the very room, looking out eastward into the spruce grove, which father had once occupied. Dan shared it with us, sleeping in a bed of his own in the opposite corner. The sheets and pillow-slips were fragrant with lavender, and one of Grandmother King’s noted patchwork quilts was over us. The window was open and we heard the frogs singing down in the swamp of the brook meadow. We had heard frogs sing in Ontario, of course; but certainly Prince Edward Island frogswere more tuneful and mellow. Or was it simply the glamour of old family traditions and tales which was over us, lending its magic to all sights and sounds around us? This was home—father’s home—OUR home! We had never lived long enough in any one house todevelop a feeling of affection for it; but here, under the roof-tree built by Great-Grandfather King ninety years ago, that feeling swept into our boyish hearts and souls like a flood of living sweetness and tenderness.

“Just think, those are the very frogs father listened to when he was a little boy,” whispered Felix.

“They can hardly be the SAME frogs,” I objected doubtfully, not feeling very certain about the possible longevity of frogs. “It’s twenty years since father left home.”

“Well, they’re the descendants of the frogs he heard,” said Felix, “and they’re singing in the same swamp. That’s near enough.”

Our door was open and in their room across the narrow hall the girls were preparing for bed, and talking rather more loudly than they might have donehad they realized how far their sweet, shrill voices carried.

“What do you think of the boys?” asked Cecily.

“Beverley is handsome, but Felix is too fat,” answered Felicity promptly.

Felix twitched the quilt rather viciously and grunted. But I began to think I would like Felicity. It might not be altogether her fault that she was vain. How could she help it when she looked in the mirror?

“I think they’re both nice and nice looking,” said Cecily.

Dear little soul!

“I wonder what the Story Girl will think ofthem,” said Felicity, as if, after all, that was the main thing.

Somehow, we, too, felt that it was. We felt that if the Story Girl did not approve of us it made little difference who else did or did not.

“I wonder if the Story Girl is pretty,” said Felixaloud.

“No, she isn’t,” said Dan instantly, from across the room. “But you’ll think she is while she’s talking to you. Everybody does. It’s only when you go away from her that you find out she isn’t a bit pretty after all.”

The girls’ door shut with a bang. Silence fell over the house. We drifted into the land of sleep, wondering if the Story Girl would like us.

CHAPTER II. A QUEEN OF HEARTS

I wakened shortly after sunrise. The pale May sunshine was showering through the spruces, and a chill,inspiring wind was tossing the boughs about.

“Felix, wake up,” I whispered, shaking him.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured reluctantly.

“It’s morning. Let’s get up and go down and out. I can’t wait another minute to see the places father has told us of.”

Weslipped out of bed and dressed, without arousing Dan, who was still slumbering soundly, his mouth wide open, and his bed-clothes kicked off on the floor. I had hard work to keep Felix from trying to see if he could “shy” a marble into that tempting open mouth. I told him it would waken Dan, who would then likely insist on getting up and accompanying us, and it would be so much nicer to go by ourselves for the first time.

Everything was very still as we crept downstairs. Out in the kitchen we heard some one, presumably Uncle Alec, lighting the fire; but the heart of house had not yet begun to beat for the day.

We paused a moment in the hall to look at the big “Grandfather” clock. It was not going, but it seemed like an old, familiar acquaintance to us, withthe gilt balls on its three peaks; the little dial and pointer which would indicate the changes of the moon, and the very dent in its wooden door which father had made when he was a boy, by kicking it in a fit of naughtiness.

Then we opened the front doorand stepped out, rapture swelling in our bosoms. There was a rare breeze from the south blowing to meet us; the shadows of the spruces were long and clear-cut; the exquisite skies of early morning, blue and wind-winnowed, were over us; away to the west, beyond the brook field, was a long valley and a hill purple with firs and laced with still leafless beeches and maples.

Behind the house was a grove of fir and spruce, a dim, cool place where the winds were fond of purring and where there was always a resinous, woodsy odour. On the further side of it was a thick plantation of slender silver birches and whispering poplars; and beyond it was Uncle Roger’s house.

Right before us, girt about with its trim spruce hedge, was the famous King orchard, the history ofwhich was woven into our earliest recollections. We knew all about it, from father’s descriptions, and in fancy we had roamed in it many a time and oft.

It was now nearly sixty years since it had had its beginning, when Grandfather King brought his bride home. Before the wedding he had fenced off the big south meadow that sloped to the sun; it was the finest, most fertile field on the farm, and the neighbours told young Abraham King that he would raise many a fine crop of wheat in that meadow. Abraham Kingsmiled and, being a man of few words, said nothing; but in his mind he had a vision of the years to be, and in that vision he saw, not rippling acres of harvest gold, but great, leafy avenues of wide-spreading trees laden with fruit to gladden the eyes ofchildren and grandchildren yet unborn.

It was a vision to develop slowly into fulfilment. Grandfather King was in no hurry. He did not set his whole orchard out at once, for he wished it to grow with his life and history, and be bound up with all of good and joy that should come to his household. So the morning after he had brought his young wife home they went together to the south meadow and planted their bridal trees. These trees were no longer living; but they had been when father was a boy, and every spring bedecked themselves in blossom as delicately tinted as Elizabeth King’s face when she walked through the old south meadow in the morn of her life and love.

When a son was born to Abraham and Elizabeth a tree was planted in the orchard for him. They had fourteen children in all, and each child had its “birth tree.” Every family festival was commemorated in like fashion, and every beloved visitor who spent a night under their roof was expected to plant a tree in the orchard. So it came to pass that every tree in it was a fair green monument to some love or delight of the vanished years. And each grandchild had its tree, there, also, set out by grandfather when the tidings of its birth reached him; not always an apple tree—perhaps it was a plum, or cherryor pear. But it was always known by the name of the person for whom, or by whom, it was planted; and Felix and I knew as much about “Aunt Felicity’s pears,” and “Aunt Julia’s cherries,” and “Uncle Alec’s apples,” and the “Rev. Mr. Scott’s plums,” as if wehad been born and bred among them.

And now we had come to the orchard; it was before us; we had only to open that little whitewashed gate in the hedge and we might find ourselves in its storied domain. But before we reached the gate we glanced to our left, along the grassy, spruce-bordered lane which led over to Uncle Roger’s; and at the entrance of that lane we saw a girl standing, with a gray cat at her feet. She lifted her hand and beckoned blithely to us; and, the orchard forgotten, we followed her summons. For we knew that this must be the Story Girl; and in that gay and graceful gesture was an allurement not to be gainsaid or denied.

We looked at her as we drew near with such interest that we forgot to feel shy. No, she was not pretty. She was tall for her fourteen years, slim and straight; around her long, white face—rather too long and too white—fell sleek, dark-brown curls, tied above either ear with rosettes of scarlet ribbon. Her large, curving mouth was as red as a poppy, and she had brilliant, almond-shaped, hazel eyes; but we did not think her pretty.

Then she spoke; she said,

“Good morning.”

Never had we heard a voice like hers. Never, in all my life since, have I heard such a voice. I cannot describe it. I might say it was clear; I might say it was sweet; I might say it was vibrant and far-reaching and bell-like; all this would be true, but it would give you no real idea of the peculiar quality which made the Story Girl’s voice what it was.

If voices had colour, hers would have been like a rainbow. It made words LIVE. Whatever she said became a breathing entity, not a mere verbal statement or utterance. Felix and I were too young to understand or analyze the impression it made upon us; but we instantly felt at her greeting that it WAS a good morning—a surpassingly good morning—the very best morning that had ever happened in this most excellent of worlds.

“You are Felix and Beverley,” she went on, shaking our hands with an air of frank comradeship, which was very different from the shy, feminine advances of Felicity and Cecily. From that moment we were as good friends as if we had known each other for a hundred years. “I am glad to see you. I was so disappointed I couldn’t go over last night. I got up early this morning, though, for I felt sure youwould be up early, too, and that you’d like to have me tell you about things. I can tell things so much better than Felicity or Cecily. Do you think Felicity is VERY pretty?”

“She’s the prettiest girl I ever saw,” I said enthusiastically, remembering thatFelicity had called me handsome.

“The boys all think so,” said the Story Girl, not, I fancied, quite well pleased. “And I suppose she is. She is a splendid cook, too, though she is only twelve. I can’t cook. I am trying to learn, but I don’t make much progress. Aunt Olivia says I haven’t enough natural gumption ever to be a cook; but I’d love to be able to make as good cakes and pies as Felicity can make. But then, Felicity is stupid. It’s not ill-natured of me to say that. It’s just the truth, and you’d soon find it out for yourselves. I like Felicity very well, but she IS stupid. Cecily is ever so much cleverer. Cecily’s a dear. So is Uncle Alec; and Aunt Janet is pretty nice, too.”

“What is Aunt Olivia like?” asked Felix.

“Aunt Olivia is very pretty. Sheis just like a pansy—all velvety and purply and goldy.”

Felix and I SAW, somewhere inside of our heads, a velvet and purple and gold pansy-woman, just as the Story Girl spoke.

“But is she NICE?” I asked. That was the main question about grown-ups. Their looks mattered little to us.

“She is lovely. But she is twenty-nine, you know. That’s pretty old. She doesn’t bother me much. Aunt Janet says that I’d have no bringing up at all, if it wasn’t for her. Aunt Olivia says children should just be let COMEup—that everything else is settled for them long before they are born. I don’t understand that. Do you?”

No, we did not. But it was our experience that grown-ups had a habit of saying things hard to understand.

“What is Uncle Roger like?” was our next question.

“Well, I like Uncle Roger,” said the Story Girl meditatively. “He is big and jolly. But he teases people too much. You ask him a serious question and you get a ridiculous answer. He hardly ever scolds or gets cross, though, and THAT is something. Heis an old bachelor.”

“Doesn’t he ever mean to get married?” asked Felix.

“I don’t know. Aunt Olivia wishes he would, because she’s tired keeping house for him, and she wants to go to Aunt Julia in California. But she says he’ll never get married, because he is looking for perfection, and when he finds her she won’t have HIM.”

By this time we were all sitting down on the gnarled roots of the spruces, and the big gray cat came over and made friends with us. He was a lordly animal, with a silver-gray coat beautifully marked with darker stripes. With such colouring most cats would have had white or silver feet; but he had four black paws and a black nose. Such points gave him an air of distinction, and marked him out as quite different from the common or gardenvariety of cats. He seemed to be a cat with a tolerably good opinion of himself, and his response to our advances was slightly tinged with condescension.

“This isn’t Topsy, is it?” I asked. I knew at once that the question was a foolish one. Topsy, the catof which father had talked, had flourished thirty years before, and all her nine lives could scarcely have lasted so long.

“No, but it is Topsy’s great-great-great-great-grandson,” said the Story Girl gravely. “His name is Paddy and he is my own particular cat. We have barn cats, but Paddy never associates with them. I am very good friends with all cats. They are so sleek and comfortable and dignified. And it is so easy to make them happy. Oh, I’m so glad you boys have come to live here. Nothing ever happens here, except days, so we have to make our own good times. We were short of boys before—only Dan and Peter to four girls.”

“FOUR girls? Oh, yes, Sara Ray. Felicity mentioned her. What is she like? Where does she live?”

“Just down the hill. You can’t seethe house for the spruce bush. Sara is a nice girl. She’s only eleven, and her mother is dreadfully strict. She never allows Sara to read a single story. JUST you fancy! Sara’s conscience is always troubling her for doing things she’s sure her mother won’tapprove, but it never prevents her from doing them. It only spoils her fun. Uncle Roger says that a mother who won’t let you do anything, and a conscience that won’t let you enjoy anything is an awful combination, and he doesn’t wonder Sara is pale and thin and nervous. But, between you and me, I believe the real reason is that her mother doesn’t give her half enough to eat. Not that she’s mean, you know—but she thinks it isn’t healthy for children to eat much, or anything but certain things. Isn’t it fortunate we weren’t born into that sort of a family?”

“I think it’s awfully lucky we were all born into the same family,” Felix remarked.

“Isn’t it? I’ve often thought so. And I’ve often thought what a dreadful thing it would have been if Grandfather and Grandmother King had never got married to each other. I don’t suppose there would have been a single one of us children here at all; or if we were, we would be part somebody else and that would be almost as bad. When I think it all over I can’t feel too thankful that Grandfather and Grandmother King happened to marry each other, when there were so many other people they might have married.”

Felix and I shivered. We felt suddenly that we had escaped a dreadful danger—the danger of having been born somebody else.But it took the Story Girl to make us realize just how dreadful it was and what a terrible risk we had run years before we, or our parents either, had existed.

“Who lives over there?” I asked, pointing to a house across the fields.

“Oh, that belongs to the Awkward Man. His name is Jasper Dale, but everybody calls him the Awkward Man. And they do say he writes poetry. He calls his place Golden Milestone. I know why, because I’ve read Longfellow’s poems. He never goes into society because he is so awkward. The girls laugh at him and he doesn’t like it. I know a story about him and I’ll tell it to you sometime.”

“And who lives in that other house?” asked Felix, looking over the westering valley where a little gray roof was visible among the trees.

“Old Peg Bowen. She’s very queer. She lives there with a lot of pet animals in winter, and in summer she roams over the country and begs her meals. They say she is crazy. People have always tried to frighten us children into good behaviour by telling us that Peg Bowenwould catch us if we didn’t behave. I’m not so frightened of her as I once was, but I don’t think I would like to be caught by her. Sara Ray is dreadfully scared of her. Peter Craig says she is a witch and that he bets she’s at the bottom of it when the butter won’t come. But I don’t believe THAT. Witches are so scarce nowadays. There may be some somewhere in the world, but it’s not likely there are any here right in Prince Edward Island. They used to be very plenty long ago. I know some splendid witch stories I’ll tell you some day. They’ll just make your blood freeze in your veins.”

We hadn’t a doubt of it. If anybody could freeze the blood in our veins this girl with the wonderful voice could. But it was a May morning, and our young blood was running blithely in our veins. We suggested a visit to the orchard would be more agreeable.

“All right. I know stories about it, too,” she said, as we walked across the yard, followed by Paddy of the waving tail. “Oh, aren’t you glad it is spring? The beauty of winter is that it makes you appreciate spring.”

The latch of the gate clicked under the Story Girl’s hand, and the next moment we were in the King orchard.

CHAPTER III. LEGENDS OF THE OLD ORCHARD

Outside of the orchard the grass was only beginning togrow green; but here, sheltered by the spruce hedges from uncertain winds and sloping to southern suns, it was already like a wonderful velvet carpet; the leaves on the trees were beginning to come out in woolly, grayish clusters; and there were purple-pencilled white violets at the base of the Pulpit Stone.