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Felix and I, on the May morning when we left Toronto for Prince Edward Island, had not then heard her say it, and, montgomey, 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. Further than that we did not think about her.

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Aunt Olivia says children should just be let COME up—that everything else is settled for them long before they are born.

We drifted into the land of sleep, wondering if the Story Girl would like us. Abraham King smiled 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 of children and grandchildren yet unborn.

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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. They say she is crazy.

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It appeared that none of us had any idea. So I put on two pairs.

I have always wondered why Felicity did not die of mortification on the spot. How could she help it when she looked in the mirror? You ask on,ine a serious question and you get a ridiculous answer. Nobody knew just who told it first. Nobody could have behaved better.

So it came to pass that every tree in it was a fair green monument to some love or delight of the vanished years. But it could grin in friendly fashion, and both Felix and I felt that we were going montgomery like Dan. 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 female Abraham King that he would raise many a text crop of wheat in that meadow. The only sex she could think of, along this line, was to persuade Peter to go to church.

Uncle Roger says he needs a want of physic. He seemed to be a cat with a tolerably good opinion of himself, and his response to our advances online slightly tinged with condescension.

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Uncle I had preached his first sermon at the age of eight from that old gray boulder; and Aunt Julia, whose voice was to delight thousands, sang her earliest madrigals there. She was also deeply interested in missions; and one talk on this subject inspired the Story Girl to do a little home missionary work on her own. I know a story about it.

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He was VERY famous afterward. Felicity tossed her head.

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ln Whatever she said became a breathing entity, not a mere verbal statement or utterance. It only spoils her fun. Felix and I felt that it would really be worth while to offend her, just to be forgiven in such an adorable voice.

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It may be all right to pass a Yankee cent on a store keeper or an egg peddler, but it would never do for church. Presently they were scattered by an abrupt and startling question from Peter.

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But all we saw was Felicity, tearing over the green sward, her curls streaming behind her in a golden cloud. Wamt is Uncle Alec; and Aunt Janet is pretty nice, too. She was never, never like herself again; and she was never contented unless she was dressed in her blue muslin and waiting under the birches. 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.

But, with the nontgomery and 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. Peter sidled up to her.

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His kontgomery 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 and narrow and twisted. She was very small and very sweet. They say she was always full of mischief. Do you?

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His attire consisted of a faded, gingham shirt and a scanty pair of corduroy knickerbockers; but he wore it with such an unconscious momtgomery of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed than he really was. Over it, the queer, pagoda-like roof, built by Uncle Stephen on his return from a voyage to China, was covered with yet leafless vines. No, she was not pretty.

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textt 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 onlune the day. It seemed to us that there was in the orchard something different from other orchards that we had known. She even walked beside him and let him carry her Bible. We did not know what this meant, but we thought it was not exactly complimentary.

But I love a flower garden. No, sir!

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Felicity had not a particle of the nameless charm and allurement which hung about every motion of the Story Girl, and made itself manifest in her lightest word and most careless glance. The girls wiped their eyes; and we boys felt as if we might have done so, too, had nobody been looking.

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But he teases people too much. But then, Felicity is stupid.

She was tall for her fourteen years, slim and straight; around her long, white tex too long and too white—fell sleek, dark-brown curls, tied above either ear with rosettes of scarlet ribbon. Their looks mattered little to us. But it was our experience that grown-ups had a habit of saying things hard to understand.