The Story Girl | Part 3 of 17 (Voice Only)

Hey everyone, it's your host Andrew here. If you've been enjoying Send Me to Sleep for a while and you'd like to help support the show, the best way you can do that is by joining Send Me to Sleep Premium. You'll get all episodes ad-free as well as bonus episodes such as L.M. Montgomery's short stories, Winnie the Pooh, Sherlock Holmes, and many more. Sign up using the link in the description to get a 7-day free trial, and cancel any time if you decide it's not for you. Either way, thank you so much for listening. Now, here's a few ads before we begin tonight's story. Hey, it's Andrew here, and I'm excited to share with you the newest show from Slumber Studios. It's called Sleepy History, and it's exactly what it sounds like. Intriguing stories, people, mysteries, and events from history, delivered in a supremely calming atmosphere. Explore the legend of El Dorado. See what life was like for Roman gladiators Uncover the myths and mysteries of Stonehenge You'll find interesting but relaxing episodes like these on Sleepy History and the same great production quality you've come to know and love from Send Me to Sleep So give it a listen and perhaps you'll have another way to get a good night's rest Just search Sleepy History in your preferred podcast player Hey, it's Thomas here. I'm the host of Get Sleepy, another sleep-inducing podcast from the Slumber Studios Network. On Get Sleepy, you'll find hundreds of original bedtime stories and meditations to fall asleep to. Some of our listener favorites are our trips to the Rainy Day Bakery, our Sleepy History series, and our adaptations of classic tales like beauty and the beast. Everything is designed with your sleep in mind, so if you're looking for another great way to ease into a restful night's slumber, then just search for Get Sleepy on your favorite podcast player. I'll see you there, my friends. Hey, it's Thomas here. I'm the host of Deep Sleep Sounds, another sleep-inducing podcast from the Slumber Studios network. On the Deep Sleep Sounds podcast, you'll find hundreds of episodes featuring relaxing nature soundscapes, sleep music, calming white noise, and much more. Everything is designed with your sleep in mind, so if you're looking for another great way to ease into a restful night's slumber, then just search Deep Sleep Sounds on your favorite podcast player. I'll see you there, my friends. In the previous chapters, the story girl regales the rest of the cousins with two stories of the old family orchard, the family ghost and the poet who was kissed. Soon after this, she talks of her attempts to convince Peter to attend church, and after much persuasion, he eventually concedes, quite to cousin Felicity's dismay. The story girl then tells the tale of the wedding veil of the proud princess, which puts a chill in the cousin's spines. Before we begin tonight's story, let's get ourselves ready for sleep. Start by taking a deep, relaxing breath. And settle your body, in whatever way feels most comfortable. now let any thoughts of the day drift away from your mind and simply follow the sound of my voice so let your eyes fall heavy and your breath soften as we settle in for a peaceful night's sleep Chapter 5 Peter Goes to Church There was no Sunday school the next afternoon, as superintendent and teachers wished to attend a communion service at Markdale. The Carlisle service was in the evening, and at sunset we were waiting at Uncle Alex's front door for Peter and the story girl. None of the grown-ups were going to church. Aunt Olivia had a sick head and Uncle Roger stayed home with her. Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec had gone to the Markdale service and had not yet returned. Felicity and Cecily were wearing their new summer muslins for the first time and were acutely conscious of the fact. Felicity, her pink and white face shadowed by her drooping forget-me-not wreathed leghorn hat, was as beautiful as usual. But Cecily, having tortured her hair with curl papers all night, had a rampant bush of curls all about her head, which quite destroyed the sweet, nun-like expression of her little features. Cecily cherished a grudge against fate because she had not been given naturally curly hair as had the other two girls. But she attained the desires of her heart on Sundays at least and was quite well satisfied. It was impossible to convince her that the satin smooth luster of her weekday tresses was much more becoming to her. Presently, Peter and the story girl appeared, and we were all more or less relieved to see that Peter looked quite respectable, despite the indisputable patch on his trousers. His face was rosy, his thick black curls were smoothly combed, and his tie was neatly bowed. But it was his legs which we scrutinized most anxiously. At first glance they seemed well enough, but closer inspection revealed something not altogether customary. What is the matter with your stockings, Peter? asked Dan bluntly. Oh, I hadn't a pair without holes in the legs, answered Peter easily. Because Ma hadn't time to darn them this week, so I put on two pairs. The holes don't come in the same places, and you'd never notice them unless you'd looked right close. Have you got a scent for collection? demanded Felicity. I've got a Yankee scent. I suppose it'll do, won't it? Felicity shook her head vehemently. Oh, no, no. It may be all right to pass a Yankee scent on a storekeeper or an egg peddler, but it would never do for church. I'll have to go without any then, said Peter I haven't another cent I only get fifty cents a week and I gave it all to my ma last night but Peter must have a cent Felicity would have given him one herself and she was none too lavish of her coppers rather than have him go without one Dan, however, lent him one On the distinct understanding that it was to be repaid the next week Uncle Roger wandered by at this moment And, beholding Peter, said Is Saul also among the prophets? What can have induced you to turn churchgoer, Peter when all Olivia's gentle persuasions were of no avail. The old, old argument, I suppose. Beauty draws us with a single hair. Uncle Roger looked quizzically at Felicity. We did not know what his quotation meant, but we understood he thought Peter was going to church because of Felicity. Felicity tossed her head. It isn't my fault that he's going to church, she said snappishly. It's the story girl's doing. Uncle Roger sat down on the doorstep and gave himself over to one of the silent, inward paroxysms of laughter we all found so very aggravating. He shook his big, blonde head, shut his eyes and murmured, Not her fault. Oh, Felicity, Felicity, you'll be the death of your dear uncle yet if you don't watch out. Felicity started off indignantly, and we followed, picking up Sarah Way at the foot of the hill. The Carlisle church was a very old-fashioned one, with a square, ivy-hung tower. It was shaded by tall elms, and the graveyard surrounded it completely, many of the graves being directly under its windows. We always took the corner path through it, passing the king plot where our kindred of four generations slept in a green solitude of wavering light and shadow. There was great-grandfather king's flat tomb of rough island sandstone, so overgrown with ivy that we could hardly read its lengthy inscription, recording his whole history in brief, and finishing with eight lines of original verse composed by his widow. I do not think that poetry was Great Grandmother King's strong point. When Felix read it on our first Sunday in Carlisle, he remarked dubiously that it looked like poetry, but didn't sound like poetry. There, too, slept the Emily, whose faithful spirit was supposed to haunt the orchard. But Edith, who had kissed the poet, lay not with her kindred. She had died in a far, foreign land, and the murmur of an alien sea sounded about her grave. White marble tablets, ornamented with weeping willow trees, marked where Grandfather and Grandmother King were buried. And a single shaft of red scotch granite stood between the graves of Aunt Felicity and Uncle Felix. The story girl lingered to lay a bunch of wild violets, misty blue and faintly sweet, on her mother's grave, and then she read aloud the verse on the stone. They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided. The tones of her voice brought out the poignant and immortal beauty and pathos of that wonderful old lament. The girls wiped their eyes, and we boys felt as if we might have done so too, had nobody been looking. What better epitaph could anyone wish than to have it said that he was lovely and pleasant in his life? When I heard the story girl read it, I made a secret to compact with myself that I would try to deserve such an epitaph. I wish I had a family plot said Peter rather wistfully I haven anything you fellows have The Craigs are just buried anywhere they happen to die. I'd like to be buried here when I die, said Felix. But I hope it won't be for a good while yet, he added in a lively tone as we moved on towards the church. The interior of the church was as old-fashioned as its exterior. It was furnished with square box pews. The pulpit was a wine-glass one and was reached by a steep, narrow flight of steps. Uncle Alex Pugh was at the top of the church, quite near the pulpit. Peter's appearance did not attract as much attention as we had fondly expected. Indeed, nobody seemed to notice him at all. The lamps were not yet lighted, and the church was filled with a soft twilight and hush. outside the sky was purple and gold and silvery green with a delicate tangle of rosy cloud above the elms isn't it awful nice and holy in here whispered Peter reverently I didn't know church was like this it's nice Felicity frowned at him and the story girl touched her with her slippered foot to remind him that he must not talk in church. Peter stiffened up and sat at attention during the service. Nobody could have behaved better but when the sermon was over and the collection was being taken up he made the sensation which his entrance had not produced. Elder Fruin, a tall, pale man with long, sandy side whiskers, appeared at the door of our pew with the collection plate. We knew Elder Fruin quite well and liked him. He was Aunt Janet's cousin and often visited. The contrast between his weekday jollity and the unearthly solemnity of his countenance on Sundays always struck us as very funny. It seemed so to strike Peter, for as Peter dropped his scent into the plate, he laughed out loud. Everybody looked at our pew. I've always wondered why Felicity did not die of mortification on the spot. The story girl turned white and Cecily red. As for that poor unlucky Peter, the shame of his countenance was pitiful to behold. He never lifted his head for the remainder of the service and he followed us down the aisle and across the graveyard like a beaten dog. None of us uttered a word until we reached the road, lying in the white moonshine of the May night. Then Felicity broke the tense silence by remarking to the story girl, I told you so. The story girl made no response. Peter sidled up to her. I'm awful sorry, he said contritely. I never meant to laugh. It just happened before I could stop myself. It was this way. Don't you ever speak to me again, said the story girl, in a tone of cold, concentrated fury. Go and be a Methodist or a Mohammedan or anything. I don't care what you are. You have humiliated me. She marched off with Sarah Ray and Peter dropped back to us with a frightened face. What is it I've done to her? He whispered. What does that big word mean? oh never mind I said crossly for I felt that Peter had disgraced us she's just mad and no wonder whatever made you act so crazy Peter well I didn't mean to and I wanted to laugh twice before that and didn't it was the story girl stories made me want to laugh so I don't think it's fair for her to be mad at me. She hadn't ought to tell me stories about people if she don't want me to laugh when I see them. When I looked at Samuel Ward I thought of him getting up in meeting one night and praying that he might be guided in his upsetting and downrising. I remembered the way she took him off and I wanted to laugh. and then I looked at the pulpit and thought of the story she told about the old Scotch minister who was too fat to get in at the door of it and had to hist himself by his two hands over it and then whispered to the other minister so that everybody heard him this pulpit door was made for spirits and I wanted to laugh and then Mr. Fruin came and I thought of her story about his side whiskers. How when his first wife died of inflammation on the lungs he went courting Celia Ward and Celia told him she wouldn't marry him unless he shaved them whiskers off and he wouldn't just to be stubborn. And one day one of them caught fire when he was burning brush and burned off and everyone thought he'd have to shave the other off then but he didn't and just went round with one whisker till the burnt one grew back and then Celia gave in and took him because she saw there wasn't no hope of him ever giving in. I just remembered that story and I thought I could see him taking up the scent so solemn with one long whisker and the laugh just laughed itself before I could help it. We all exploded with laughter on the spot, much to the horror of Mrs. Abram Ward, who was just driving past and who came up the next day and told Aunt Janet we had acted scandalous on the road home from church. We felt ashamed ourselves because we knew people should conduct themselves decently and in order on Sunday fairings forth. But, as with Peter, it had laughed itself. Even Felicity laughed. Felicity was not nearly so angry with Peter as might have been expected. She even walked beside him and let him carry her Bible. They talked quite confidentially. Perhaps she forgave him the more easily because he had justified her in the predictions and thus afforded her a decided triumph over the story, girl. I'm going to keep on going to church, Peter told her. I like it. Sermons are more interesting than I thought and I like the singing. I wish I could make up my own mind whether to be Presbyterian or Methodist. I suppose I might ask the minister about it. Oh, no, no, don't do that, said Felicity in alarm. Ministers wouldn't want to be bothered with such questions. Why not? What are ministers for if they ain't to tell people how to go to heaven? Oh, well, it's alright for grown-ups to ask them things, of course, but it isn't respectful for little boys, especially hired boys. I don't see why, but anyhow, I suppose it wouldn't be much use, because if he was a Presbyterian minister, he'd say I ought to be Presbyterian, and if he was a Methodist, he'd tell me to be one too. Look here, Felicity, what is the difference between them? I, I don't know, said Felicity reluctantly. I suppose children can't understand such things. There must be a great deal of difference, of course, if we only knew what it was. Anyhow, I am a Presbyterian, and I'm glad of it. We walked on in silence for a time, thinking our own young thoughts. Presently, they were scattered by an abrupt and startling question from Peter. What does God look like, he said. It appeared that none of us had any idea. The story girl would probably know, said Cecily. I wish I knew, said Peter gravely. I wish I could see a picture of God. It would make him seem lots more real. I've often wondered myself what he looks like, said Felicity, in a burst of confidence. Even in Felicity, so it would seem, there were depths of thought unplumbed. I've seen pictures of Jesus, said Felix, meditatively He looks just like a man, only better and kinder But now that I come to think of it, I've never seen a picture of God Well, if there isn't one in Toronto, it isn't likely there's one anywhere, said Peter, disappointedly I saw a picture of the devil once he added. It was in a book my Aunt Jane had. She got it for a prize in school. My Aunt Jane was clever. It couldn't have been a very good book if there was such a picture in it, said Felicity. It was a real good book. My Aunt Jane wouldn't have a book that wasn't good, "'You,' retorted Peter, sulkily. "'He refused to discuss the subject further, "'somewhat to our disappointment, "'for we had never seen a picture of the person referred to, "'and we were rather curious regarding it. "'We'll ask Peter to describe it sometime "'when he's in a better humour,' whispered Felix. Sarah Ray having turned in at her own gate I ran ahead to join the story girl and we walked up the hill together She had recovered her calmness of mind but she made no reference to Peter When we reached our lane and passed under Grandfather King's big willow the fragrance of the orchard struck us in the face like a wave We could see the long rows of trees, a white gladness in the moonshine. It seemed to us that there was in the orchard something different from other orchards that we had known. We were too young to analyse the vague sensation. In later years, we were to understand that it was because the orchard blossomed not only apple blossoms, but also the love, faith, joy, pure happiness and pure sorrow of those who had made it and walked there. The orchard doesn't seem the same place by moonlight at all, said the story girl dreamily. It's lovely, but it's different. When I was very small, I used to believe the fairies danced in it on moonlight nights. I would like to believe it now, but I can't. Why not? Oh, it's so hard to believe things you know are not true. It was Uncle Edward who told me there were no such things as fairies I was just seven He is a minister so of course I knew he spoke the truth It was his duty to tell me, and I do not blame him, but I have never felt quite the same to Uncle Edward since. Ah, do we ever feel quite the same towards people who destroy our illusions? Shall I ever be able to forgive the brutal creature who first told me there was no such person as Santa Claus? He was a boy, three years older than myself, and he may now, for aught I know, be a most useful and respectable member of society, beloved by his kind. But I know what he must ever seem to me. We waited at Uncle Alec's door for the others to come up. Peter was by way of skulking shamefacedly passed in the shadows, but the story girl's brief, bitter anger had vanished. Wait for me, Peter, she called. She went over to him and held out her hand. I forgive you, she said graciously. Felix and I felt that it would really be worthwhile to offend her, just to be forgiven in such an adorable voice. Peter eagerly grasped her hand. I tell you what, story girl, I'm awful sorry I laughed in church, but you needn't be afraid I'll ever do it again. No, sir, I'm going to church and Sunday school regular. and I'll say my prayers every night. I want to be like the rest of you. And look here, I've thought of the way my Aunt Jane used to give medicine to a cat. You mix the powder in lard, and spread it on his paws and his sides, and he'll lick it off, cause a cat can't stand being messy. If Paddy isn't any better tomorrow, we'll do that. They went away together, hand in hand, children-wise, up the lane of spruces crossed with bars of moonlight. There was a peace over all that fresh and flowery land, and peace in our little hearts as well. Chapter Six The Mystery of the Golden Milestone Paddy was smeared with medicated lard the next day, all of us assisting at the right, although the story girl was high priestess. Then, out of regard for mats and cushions, he was kept endurance vile in the granary until he licked his fur clean. This treatment being repeated every day for a week, Pat recovered his usual health and spirits, and our minds were set at rest to enjoy the excitement, collecting for a school library fund. Our teacher thought it would be an excellent thing to have a library in connection with the school, and he suggested that each of the pupils should try to see how much money he or she could raise for the project during the month of June. We might earn it by honest toil or gather it in by contributions levied on our friends. The result was a determined rivalry as to which pupil should collect the largest sum and this rivalry was especially intense in our home coterie. Our relatives started us with a quarter apiece. For the rest, we knew we must depend on our own exertions. Peter was handicapped at the beginning by the fact that he had no family friend to finance him. If my Aunt Jane had been living, she'd have given me something, he remarked. And if my father hadn't run away, he might have given me something too. But I'm going to do the best I can anyhow. Your aunt Olivia says I can have the job of gathering the eggs, and I'm to have one egg out of every dozen to sell for myself. Felicity made a similar bargain with her mother. The Story Girl and Cicely were each to be paid ten cents a week for washing dishes in their respective homes. Felix and Dan contracted to keep the gardens free from weeds. I caught brook trout in the westering valley of the spruces and sold them for a cent apiece. Sarah Ray was the only unhappy one among us. She could do nothing. She had no relatives in Carlisle except her mother, and her mother did not approve of the school library project and would not give Sarah a cent or put her in any way of earning one. To Sarah, this was humiliation indescribable. She felt herself an outcast and an alien to our busy little circle, where each member counted every day, with miserly delight, his slowly increasing hoard of small cash. I'm just going to pray to God to send me some money, she announced desperately at last. I don't believe that will do any good, said Dan. He gives lots of things, but he doesn't give money, because people can earn that for themselves. I can't, said Sarah, with passionate defiance. I think he ought to take that into account. Don't worry, dear, said Cecily, who always poured a balm. If you can't collect any money, everybody will know it isn't your fault. I won't ever feel like reading a single book in the library if I can't give something to it, mourned Sarah. Dan and the girls and I were sitting in a row on Aunt Olivia's garden fence, watching Felix weed. Felix worked well, although he did not like weeding. Fat boys never do, Felicity informed him. Felix pretended not to hear her but I knew he did because his ears grew red Felix's face never blushed but his ears always gave him away As for Felicity she did not say things like that out of malice per pence It never occurred to her that Felix did not like to be called fat I always feel so sorry for the poor weeds, said the story girl dreamily. It must be very hard to be rooted up. Well, they shouldn't grow in the wrong place, said Felicity mercilessly. When weeds go to heaven, I suppose there will be flowers, continued the story girl. You do say such strange things, said Felicity. A rich man in Toronto has a floral clock in his garden, I said. It looks just like the face of a clock, and there are flowers in it that open at every hour, so that you can always tell the time. Oh, I wish we had one here, exclaimed Cecily. What would be the use of it? asked the story girl a little disdainfully. Nobody ever wants to know the time in a garden. I slipped away at this point, suddenly remembering that it was time to take a dose of magic seed. I had bought it from Billy Robinson three days before in school. Billy had assured me that it would make me grow fast. I was beginning to feel secretly worried because I did not grow. I'd overheard Aunt Janet saying I was going to be short like Uncle Alec. Now, I loved Uncle Alec, but I wanted to be taller than he was. So when Billy confided to me, under solemn promise of secrecy, that he had some magic seed which would make boys grow and he would sell me a box for ten cents. I jumped at the offer. Billy was taller than any boy of his age in Carlisle and he assured me it all came from him taking magic seed. I was a regular runt before I began, he said. And look at me now. I got it from Peg Bone. She's a witch, you know. I wouldn't go near her again for a bushel of magic seed it was an awful experience I haven't much left but I guess I've enough to do me until I'm as tall as I want to be you must take a pinch of the seed every three hours walking backward and you must never tell a soul you're taking it or it won't work I wouldn't spare any of it to anyone but you I felt deeply grateful to Billy and sorry that I had not liked him better. Somehow, nobody did like Billy Robinson over and above. But I vowed I would like him in the future. I paid him the ten cents cheerfully and took the magic seed as directed, measuring myself carefully every day by mark on the hall door. I could not see any advance in growth yet, but then I had been taking it only three days. One day, the story girl had an inspiration. Let us go and ask the awkward man and Mr. Campbell for a contribution to the library, she said. I'm sure no one else has asked them, because nobody in Carlisle is related to them. Let us all go, and if they give us anything, we'll divide it equally among us. It was a daring proposition, for both Mr. Campbell and the awkward man were regarded as eccentric personages, and Mr. Campbell was supposed to detest children. But where the story girl led, we would follow to the death. The next day being Saturday, we started out in the afternoon. We took a shortcut to the golden milestone over a long, green, dewy land full of placid meadows where the sunshine had fallen asleep. At first, all was not harmonious. Felicity was in an ill humour. She had wanted to wear her second best dress, but Aunt Janet had decreed that her school clothes were good enough to go traipsing about in the dust. Then the story girl arrived, arrayed not in any second best, but in her very best dress and hat, which her father had sent her from Paris. A dress of soft crimson silk and a white leghorn hat encircled by flame-red poppies. Neither Felicity nor Cecily could have worn it, but it became the story girl perfectly. In it, she was a thing of fire and laughter and glow, as if the singular charm of her temperament were visible and tangible in its vivid colouring and silken texture. I shouldn't think you'd put on your best clothes to go begging for the library, said Felicity cuttingly. Aunt Olivia says that when you're going to have an important interview with a man you ought to look your very best, said the story girl giving her skirt a lustrous swirl and enjoying the effect Aunt Olivia spoils you, said Felicity She doesn either Felicity King Aunt Olivia is just sweet She kisses me goodnight every night and your mother never kisses you My mother doesn't make kisses so common, retorted Felicity, but she gives us pie for dinner every night. So does Aunt Olivia. Yes, but look at the difference in the size of pieces, And Aunt Olivia only gives you skim milk. My mother gives us cream. Aunt Olivia's skim milk is as good as your mother's cream, cried the story girl hotly. Oh, girls, don't fight, said Cecily, the peacemaker. It's such a nice day, and we'll have a nice time if you don't spoil it by fighting. We're not fighting, said Felicity And I like Aunt Olivia But my mother is just as good as Aunt Olivia There now Of course she is Aunt Janet is splendid, agreed the story girl They smiled at each other amicably Felicity and the story girl were really quite fond of each other under the strange surface friction that commonly resulted from their intercourse. You said once that you knew a story about the awkward man, said Felix. You might tell it to us now. All right, agreed the story girl. The only trouble is, I don't know the whole story, but I'll tell you all I do know. I call it the mystery of the golden milestone. Oh, I don't believe that story is true, said Felicity. I believe Mrs. Griggs was just romancing. She does romance, Mother says. Yes, but I don't believe she could ever have thought of such a thing as this herself. so I believe it must be true, said the story girl. Anyway, this is the story, boys. You know the awkward man has lived alone ever since his mother died ten years ago. Abel Griggs is his hired man, and he and his wife live in a little house down the awkward man's lane. Mrs. Griggs made his bread for him and she cleans up the house now and then. She says he keeps it very neat. But till last fall, there was one room she never saw. It was always locked, the west one, looking out over his garden. One day, last fall, the awkward man went to Summerside and Mrs. Griggs scrubbed his kitchen. Then she went over the whole house and she tried the door of the west room. Mrs. Griggs is a very curious woman. Uncle Roger says all women have as much curiosity is as good for them. But Mrs. Griggs has more. She expected to find the door locked as usual, but it was not locked. She opened it and went in. What do you suppose she found? Something like, like Bluebeard's chamber, suggested Felix in a scared tone. No, no, no, nothing like that could happen in Prince Edward Island. But if there had been beautiful wives hanging up by their hair all round the walls, I don't believe Mrs. Griggs could have been much more astonished. The room had never been furnished in his mother's time, but now it was elegantly furnished, though Mrs. Griggs said she doesn't know when or how the furniture was brought there. She says she never saw a room like it in a country farmhouse It was like a bedroom and a sitting room combined The floor was covered with a carpet-like green velvet There was fine lace curtains at the windows And beautiful pictures on the walls There was a little white bed and a dressing table A bookcase full of books. A stand with a work basket on it. And a rocking chair. There was a woman's picture above the bookcase. Mrs. Griggs said she thinks it was a coloured photograph, but she didn't know who it was. Anyway, it was a very pretty girl. But the most amazing thing of all was that a woman's dress was hanging over a chair by the table. Mrs. Griggs says it never belonged to Jasper Dale's mother, for she thought it a sin to wear anything but print and drug it, and this dress was of pale blue silk. Besides that, there was a pair of blue satin slippers on the floor beside it, high-heeled slippers, and on the fly leaves of the books the name Alice was written. Now, there never was an Alice in the Dale connection, and nobody ever heard of the awkward man having a sweetheart. There, isn't that a lovely mystery? It's a pretty weird yarn, said Felix. I wonder if it's true and what it means. I intend to find out what it means, said the story girl. I'm going to get acquainted with the awkward man sometime, and then I'll find out his Alice secret. I don't see how you'll ever get acquainted with him, said Felicity. He never goes anywhere except to church. He just stays home and reads books when he isn't working. Mother says he is a perfect hermit. I'll manage it somehow, said the story girl, and we had no doubt that she would. I must wait until I'm a little older, for he wouldn't tell the secret of the West Room to a little girl. I mustn't wait until I'm too old, for he is frightened of grown-up girls, because he thinks they laugh at his awkwardness. I know I will like him. He has such a nice face, even if he is awkward. He looks like a man you could tell things to. Well, I'd like a man who could move around without falling over his own feet, said Felicity. And then the look of him. Uncle Roger says he is long, lank, lean, narrow, and contracted. Things always sound worse than they are when Uncle Roger says them, said the story girl. Uncle Edward says Jasper Dale is a very clever man, and it's a great pity he wasn't able to finish his college course. He went to college two years, you know. Then his father died, and he stayed home with his mother because she was very delicate. I call him a hero. I wonder if it is true that he writes poetry. Mrs. Griggs says that it is. She says she has seen him writing in a brown book. She said she couldn't get near enough to read it, but she knew it was poetry by the shape of it. Very likely. If that blue silk dress story is true, I'd believe anything of him, said Felicity. We were near Golden Milestone now. The house was a big, weather-grey structure, overgrown with vines and climbing roses. Something about the three square windows in the second story gave it an appearance of winking at us in a friendly fashion through its vines. At least, so the story girl said. And indeed, we could see it for ourselves after she had once pointed it out to us. We did not get into the house, however. We met the awkward man in his yard, and he gave us a quarter apiece for our library. He did not seem awkward or shy, but then we were only children, and his foot was on his native heath. He was a tall, slender man, who did not look his forty years. so unwrinkled was his high white forehead, so clear and lustrous his large dark blue eyes, so free from silver threads his rather long black hair. He had large hands and feet and walked with a slight stoop. I am afraid we stared at him rather rudely while the story girl talked to him, But was not an awkward man, who was also a hermit and kept blue silk dresses in a locked room and possibly wrote poetry, a legitimate object of curiosity? I leave it to you. When we got away, we compared notes and found that we all liked him, and this, although he had said little and had appeared somewhat glad to get rid of us, he gave us the money like a gentleman said the story girl i felt he didn't grudge it and now for mr campbell it was on his account i put on my red silk i don't suppose the awkward man noticed it at all but mr campbell will or i'm much mistaken Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.