shine was showering through the spruces, and a ch

p," I whispere

ter?" he murmur

and out. I can't wait another minute t

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

tchen we heard some one, presumably Uncle Alec, lighting the fi

acquaintance to us, with the gilt balls on its three peaks; the little dial and pointer which would indicate the changes of t

us; the shadows of the spruces were long and clear-cut; the exquisite skies of early morning, blue and wind-winnowed, were over us; aw

rring and where there was always a resinous, woodsy odour. On the further side of it was a thick

the history of which was woven into our earliest recollections. We knew all about i

tile field on the farm, and the neighbours told young Abraham King that he would raise many a fine crop of wheat in that meadow. Abraham King smiled and, being a man of few words, said nothing; but in his mind he had

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; b

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, o

nced 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 beck

m 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 s

spoke;

morn

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

l 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 g

t 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, f

" I said enthusiastically, rememberin

rogress. 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

Olivia like?

She is just like a pansy-all

r heads, a velvet and purple and gold p

s the main question about grown-ups

says that I'd have no bringing up at all, if it wasn't for her. Aunt Olivia says children should just be let

rience that grown-ups had a habit o

oger like?" was

teases people too much. You ask him a serious question and you get a ridiculous answer. H

mean to get marri

m, and she wants to go to Aunt Julia in California. But she says he'll never get mar

d 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

foolish one. Topsy, the cat of which father had talked, had flourished thir

ver 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

Felicity mentioned her. What i

r won't approve, but it never prevents her from doing them. It only spoils her fun. Uncle Roger says that a mother who won't let you do anything, and a conscience that won't let you enjoy anything is an awful combination, and he doesn't wonder Sara is pale and thin and nervous. But,

we were all born into the

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 thin

ing been born somebody else. But it took the Story Girl to make us realize just how dreadful i

I asked, pointing to a

s poetry. He calls his place Golden Milestone. I know why, because I've read Longfellow's poems. He never goes into society beca

lix, looking over the westering valley where

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. Witc

h the wonderful voice could. But it was a May morning, and our young blood was runnin

the yard, followed by Paddy of the waving tail. "Oh, aren't you glad it

the Story Girl's hand, and the nex