The Story Girl | Part 4 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 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. 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 Welcome to Send Me to Sleep, the place to find relaxing stories for a good night's rest. My name's Andrew. Thanks for joining me. Tonight I'll be continuing The Story Girl by L.M. Montgomery. Chapter 7. How Betty Sherman Won a Husband. And Chapter 8. A Tragedy of Childhood. In the previous chapter, Peter made his way to church for the first time and embarrassed himself and his cousins frightfully, though he didn't mean to. After apologizing and explaining himself, he was forgiven by all, even Felicity. Some time later, the cousins were all trying to raise money for the school library, and they decided to ask the awkward man on the hill for money. On their way, the story girl explained the mysterious Alice room of his house. When they arrived, they all agreed he was a nice man, and so went on to the house of the less agreeable Mr. Campbell. 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 7 How Betty Sherman Won a Husband The rest of us did not share the story girl's enthusiasm regarding our call on Mr. Campbell. We secretly dreaded it. If, as was said, he detested children, who knew what sort of reception we might meet? Mr. Campbell was a rich, retired farmer who took life easily. He had visited New York and Boston, Toronto and Montreal. He had even been as far as the Pacific coast. Therefore, he was regarded in Carlisle as a much-travelled man, and he was known to be well-read and intelligent. But it was also known that Mr. Campbell was not always in a good humour. If he liked you, there was nothing he would not do for you. If he disliked you, well, you were not left in ignorance of it. In short, we had the impression that Mr. Campbell resembled the famous little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead. When he was good, he was very, very good. And when he was bad, he was horrid. What if this were one of his horrid days? He can't do anything to us, you know. said the story girl. He may be rude, but that won't hurt anyone but himself. Hard words break no bones, observed Felicity philosophically. But they hurt your feelings. I'm afraid of Mr. Campbell, said Cecily candidly. Perhaps we better give up and go home, suggested Dan. You can go home if you like, said the story girl scornfully, but I'm going to see Mr. Campbell. I know I can manage him, but if I have to go alone and he gives me anything, I'll keep it all for my own collection, mind you. That settled it. We were not going to let the story girl get ahead of us in the manner of collecting. Mr. Campbell's housekeeper ushered us into his parlour and left us. Presently, Mr. Campbell himself was standing in the doorway, looking over us. We took heart of grace. It seemed to be one of his good days, for there was a quizzical smile on his broad, clean-shaven, strongly-featured face. Mr. Campbell was a tall man with a massive head well-fetched with thick black hair, grey-streaked He had big black eyes with many wrinkles around them and a thin, firm, long-lipped mouth We thought him handsome for an old man His gaze wandered over us with uncomplimentary indifference until it fell on the story girl, leaning back in an armchair. She looked like a slender red lily in the unstudied grace of her attitude. A spark flashed into Mr. Campbell's black eyes. Is this a Sunday school deputation? he inquired rather ironically. No, we've come to ask a favour of you, said the story girl. The magic of her voice worked its will on Mr. Campbell, as on all others. He came in, sat down, hooked his thumb into his vest pocket and smiled at her. What is it? he asked. We are collecting for our school library and we've called to ask you for a contribution, she replied. Why should I contribute to your school library, demanded Mr. Campbell. This was a poser for us. Why should he indeed? But the story girl was quite equal to it. leaning forward and throwing an indescribable witchery into tone and eyes and smile she said because a lady asks you mr campbell chuckled the best of all reasons he said but see here my dear young lady. I'm an old miser and curmudgeon, as you may have heard. I hate to part with my money, even for a good reason, and I never part with any of it unless I am to receive some benefit from the expenditure. Now, what earthly good could I get from your three-by-six school library, none whatever, but I shall make you a fair offer. I've heard from my housekeeper's urchin of a son that you are a master hand to tell stories. Tell me one, here and now. I shall pay you in proportion to the entertainment you afford me. Come now, and do your prettiest. There was a fine mockery in his tone that put the story girl on her metal instantly. She sprang to her feet, an amazing change coming over her. Her eyes flashed and burned. Crimson spots glowed in her cheeks. I shall tell you the story of the Sherman girls and how Betty Sherman won a husband, she said. We gasped. Was the story girl crazy? Or had she forgotten that Betty Sherman was Mr. Campbell's own great-grandmother and that her method of winning a husband was not exactly in accordance with maidenly tradition? But Mr. Campbell chuckled again. An excellent test, he said. If you can amuse me with that story, you must be a wonder. I've heard it so often that it has no more interest for me than the alphabet. One cold winter day, 80 years ago, began the story go without further parlay. Donald Fraser was sitting by the window of his new house playing his fiddle for company and looking out over the white, frozen bay before his door. It was bitter, bitter cold and a storm was brewing. But, storm or no storm Donald meant to go over the bay that evening to see Nancy Sherman. He was thinking of her as he played Annie Laurie, for Nancy was more beautiful than the lady of the song. Her face, it is the fairest that e'er the sun shone on, hummed Donald. And oh, he thought so too. He did not know whether Nancy cared for him or not. He had many rivals, but he knew that if she would not come to be the mistress of his new house, No one else ever should. So he sat there that afternoon and dreamed of her as he played sweet old songs and rollicking chicks on his fiddle. While he was playing, a sleigh drove up to the door, and Neil Campbell came in. Donald was not overly glad to see him, for he suspected where he was going. Neil Campbell, who was Highland Scot and lived down at Berwick, was courting Nancy Sherman too. And, what was far worse, Nancy's father favoured him, because he was a richer man than Donald Fraser. But Donald was not going to show all he thought. Scotch people never do. And he pretended to be very glad to see Neil and made him heartily welcome. Neil sat down by the roaring fire, looking quite well satisfied with himself. It was ten miles from Berwick to the Bayshore, and a call at a halfway house was just the thing. Then Donald brought out the whiskey. They always did that eighty years ago, you know. If you were a woman, you could give your visitor a dish of tea, but if you were a man and you did not offer them a taste of whiskey, you were thought either very mean or very ignorant. You look cold, said Donald in his great hearty voice. Sit nearer the fireman and put a bit of warmth in your veins. It's a bitter cold day. And now tell me the Berwick news Has Jean McLean made up with her man yet Is it true that Shandy McGuire is to marry Kate Ferguson Twill be a match now sure with her red hair Sandy will not be like to Lucy's bride past finding. Neil had plenty of news to tell, and the more whiskey he drank, the more he told. He noticed that Donald was not talking much. Neil talked on and on, and of course, he soon began to tell things it would have been much wiser not to tell. Finally, he told Donald that he was going over the bay to ask Nancy Sherman that very night to marry him. and if she would have him, then Donald and all the folks should see a wedding that was a wedding. Oh, wasn't Donald taken aback? This was more than he had expected. Neil hadn't been courting Nancy very long and Donald never dreamed he would propose to her quite so soon. At first, Donald didn't know what to do. He felt sure deep down in his heart that Nancy liked him. She was very shy and modest, but you know a girl can let a man see she likes him without going out of her way. But Donald knew that if Neil proposed first, he would have the best chance. Neil was rich and the Shermans were poor, and all the liest Sherman would have the most to say in the matter. If he told Nancy she must take Neil Campbell, she would never dream of disobeying him. All the liest Sherman was a man who had to be obeyed. But if Nancy had only promised someone else first, her father would not make her break her word. Wasn't it a hard plight for poor Donald? But he was a Scotsman, you know And it's pretty hard to stick a Scotsman long Presently, a twinkle came into his eyes For he remembered that all was fair in love and war So he said to Neil, oh so persuasively Have some more, man, have some more To keep the heart in you and the teeth of that wind. Help yourself. There's plenty more where that came from. Neil didn't want much persuasion. He took some more and said slyly, Is it going over the bay the night that yourself will be doing? Donald shook his head. I thought of it, he owned, but it looks a wee like a storm. My sleigh is at the blacksmith's to be shod. If I went, it must be on Black Dan's back, and he likes a canter over the ice in a snowstorm as little as I. His own fireside is the best place for a man tonight, Campbell. Have another taste, man. Have another taste. Neil went on tasting, and that sly Donald sat there with a sober face but laughing eyes and coaxed him on. At last, Neil's head fell forward on his breast and he was sound asleep. Donald got up, put on his overcoat and cap and went to the door. May your sleep be long and sweet, man, he said, laughing softly, and as for the waking, it will be betwixt you and me. With that, he untied Neil's horse, climbed into Neil's sleigh, and tucked Neil's buffalo robe about him. Now, Bess, old girl, do your bonniest, he said. There's more than you know hangs on your speed. If the Campbell waits too soon, Black Dan could show you a pair of clean heels for your good start. On my girl. Brown Bess went over the ice like a deer and Donald kept thinking of what he should say to Nancy and more still of what she would say to him. Suppose he was mistaken. Suppose she said no. Neil would have the laugh on me then. Sure he's sleeping well but the snow is coming soon. There'll be a bonny swirl on the bay air long. I hope no harm will come to the lad if he starts to cross. When he wakes, he'll be in such a fine Highland temper that he'll never stop to think of danger. Well, Bess, old girl, here we are. Now, Donald Fraser, pluck up hard and play the man. Never flinch because a slip of a lass looks scornful at you out of the bonniest dark blue eyes on earth. But in spite of his bold words, Donald's heart was thumping as he drove into the Sherman yard. Nancy was there, milking a cow by the stable door, but she stood up when she saw Donald coming. Oh, she was very beautiful. Her hair was like a skein of golden silk, and her eyes were as blue as the gulf water when the sun breaks out after a storm. Donald felt more nervous than ever, but he knew he must make the most of his chance. He might not see Nancy alone again before Neil came. He caught her hand and stammered out. Nan, lass, I love you. You may think tis a hasty wooing, but that's a story I can tell you later, maybe. I know well I'm not worthy of you, but if true love could make a man worthy, there'd be none before me. Will you have me, Nan? Nancy didn't say she would have him. She just looked it. and Donald kissed her right there in the snow. The next morning, the storm was over. Donald knew Neil must be soon on his track. He did not want to make the Sherman House the scene of a quarrel, so he resolved to get away before the Campbell came. He persuaded Nancy to go with him to visit some friends in another settlement. As he brought Neil's sleigh up to the door, he saw a black speck far out on the bay and laughed. Black Dan goes well, but he'll not be quick enough, he said. Half an hour later, Neil Campbell rushed into the Sherman kitchen, and oh, he was angry. There was nobody there but Betty Sherman, and Betty was not afraid of him. She was never afraid of anybody. She was very handsome, with hair as brown as October nuts and black eyes and crimson cheeks, and she had always been in love with Neil Campbell herself. Good morning, Mr. Campbell, she said with a toss of her head. "'It's early abroad you are, and on Black Dan no less. "'Was I mistaken in thinking that Donald Fraser said once "'that his favourite horse should never be backed by any man but him? "'But doubtless a fair exchange is no robbery, "'and Brown Bess is as good a mare in her way.' "'Where is Donald Fraser?' said Neil, shaking his fist. "'It's him I'm seeking, and it's him I will be finding. "'Where is he, Betty Sherman?' "'Donald Fraser is far enough away by this time,' mocked Betty. "'He is a prudent fellow, and has some quickness of wit under that sandy thatch of his. He came here last night at sunset with a horse and sleigh not his own or lately gotten And he asked Nan in the stable yard to marry him Did a man ask me to marry him at the cow's side with a milking pail in hand? It's a cold answer he'd get for his pains But Nan thought differently and they sat late together last night and t'was a bonny story Nan wakened me to hear when she came to bed. The story of a broad lover who let his secret out when the whiskey was above the wit and then fell asleep while his rival was away to woo and win his lass. Did you ever hear a story like it, Mr. Campbell? Oh yes, said Neil fiercely. It is laughing at me over the countryside and telling that story that Donald Fraser will be doing, is it? But when I meet him, it is no laughing he will be doing. Oh no, there will be another story to tell. Now don't meddle with that man, cried Betty. What a state to be in Because one good-looking lass Likes sandy hair and grey eyes Better than Highland black and blue You've not the spirit of a wren, Neil Campbell Were I you I would show Donald Fraser That I could woo and win a lass As speedily as any lowlander of them all That I would As many a girl would gladly say yes For your asking and here stands one. Why not marry me, Neil Campbell? Folks say I'm as bonny as Nan and I could love you as well as Nan loves her, Donald. Aye, and ten times better. What do you suppose the Campbell did? Why, just the thing he ought to have done. He took Betty at her word on the spot and there was a double wedding soon after. And it is said that Neil and Betty were the happiest couple in the world, happier even than Donald and Nancy. So all was well, because it ended well. The story girl curtsied until her silken skirt swept the floor. Then she flung herself in her chair and looked at Mr. Campbell. flushed, triumphant, daring. The story was old to us. It had once been published in a Charlottetown paper, and we had read it in Aunt Olivia's scrapbook, where the story girl had learned it. But we had listened entranced. I have written down the bare words of the story, as she told it, but I can never reproduce the charm and color and spirit she infused into it. It lived for us. Donald and Neil, Nancy and Betty, were there in that room with us. We saw the flashes of expression on their faces. We heard their voices, angry or tender, mocking or merry, in lowland and highland accent. We realized all the mingled coquetry and feeling and defiance and archness in Betty Sherman's daring speech. We had even forgotten all about Mr. Campbell. That gentleman, in silence, took out his wallet, extracted a note therefrom, and handed it gravely to the story girl. There are five dollars for you, he said, and your story was well worth it. You are a wonder. Someday you will make the world realize it. I've been about a bit and heard some good things, but I've never enjoyed anything more than that there rare bed old story I heard in my cradle. And now, will you do me a favor? Of course, said the delighted story girl. Recite the multiplication table for me, said Mr. Campbell. We stared. Well, might Mr. Campbell be called eccentric? What on earth did he want the multiplication table recited for? Even the story girl was surprised. But she began promptly. with twice one and went through into twelve times twelve. She repeated it simply, but her voice changed from one tone to another as each in succession grew tired. We had never dreamed that there was so much in the multiplication table. As she announced it, the fact that three times three was nine was exquisitely ridiculous. Five times six almost brought tears to our eyes. Eight times seven was the most tragic and frightful thing ever heard of. And twelve times twelve rang like a trumpet call to victory. Mr. Campbell nodded his satisfaction. I thought you could do it, he said. The other day I found this statement in a book. Her voice would have made the multiplication table charming I thought of it when I heard yours I didn believe it before but now I do Then he let us go. You see, said the story girl as we went home, you need never be afraid of people. But we are not all story girls, said Cecily. That night, we heard Felicity talking to Cecily in their room. Mr. Campbell never noticed one of us except the story girl, she said. But if I had put on my best dress as she did, maybe she wouldn't have taken all the attention. Could you ever do what Betty Sherman did, do you suppose? asked Cecily absently. No, but I believe the story girl could, answered Felicity rather snappishly. Chapter 8 A Tragedy of Childhood The story girl went to Charlottetown for a week in June to visit Aunt Louisa. Life seemed very colourless without her, and even Felicity admitted that it was lonesome. But three days after her departure, Felix told us something on the way home from school which lent something spicy to existence immediately. What do you think? he said in a very solemn yet excited tone. Jerry Cohen told me at recess this afternoon that he had seen a picture of God that he has it at home in an old red covered history of the world and has looked at it often to think that Jerry Cohen should have seen such a picture often we were as deeply impressed as Felix had meant us to be Did he say what it was like? asked Peter. No, only that it was a picture of God walking in the Garden of Eden. Oh! whispered Felicity. We all spoke in low tones on the subject, for, by instinct and training, we thought and uttered the great name with reverence, in spite of our devouring curiosity. Oh, would Jerry Cohen bring it to school and let us see it? I asked him that, soon as ever he told me, said Felix. He said he might, but he couldn't promise, for he'd have to ask his mother if he could bring the book to school. If she'll let him, he'll bring it tomorrow. Oh, I'll be almost afraid to look at it, Sarah Ray said tremulously. I think we all shared her fear to some extent. Nevertheless, we went to school the next day, burning with curiosity. And we were disappointed. Possibly Knight had brought counsel to Jerry Cohen, or perhaps his mother had put him up to it. At all events, he announced to us that he couldn't bring the red-covered history to school. but if we wanted to buy the picture outright, he would tear it out of the book and sell it to us for fifty cents. We talked the matter over in serious conclave in the orchard that evening. We were all rather short of hard cash, having devoted most of our spare means to the school library fund, but the general consensus of opinion was that we must have the picture. no matter what pecuniary sacrifices were involved. If we could each give about seven cents, we could have the amount. Peter could only give four, but Dan gave eleven, which squared matters. Fifty cents would be pretty dear for any other picture, but of course this is different, said Dan. And there's a picture of Eden thrown in too, you know. added Felicity. Fancy selling God's picture, said Cecily in a shocked, awed tone. Nobody but a cohen would do it, and that's a fact, said Dan. When we get it, we'll keep it in the family Bible, said Felicity. That's the only proper place. Oh, I wonder what it will be like, breathed Cecily. We all wondered. Next day, in school, we agreed to Jerry Cohen's terms, and Jerry promised to bring the picture up to Uncle Alex the following afternoon. We were all intensely excited Saturday morning. To our dismay, it began to rain just before dinner. What if Jerry doesn't bring the picture today because of the rain, I suggested. Never you fear, answered Felicity decidedly. A Cohen would come through anything for fifty cents. After dinner, we all, without any verbal decision about it, washed our faces and combed our hair. The girls put on their second best dresses, and we boys donned white collars. We all had the unuttered feeling that we must do such honor to that picture as we could. Felicity and Dan began a small spat over something, but stopped at once when Cecily said severely, How dare you quarrel when you're going to look at a picture of God today? Owing to the rain, we could not foregather in the orchard, where we had meant to transact the business with Jerry. We did not wish our grown-ups around at our great moment, so we betook ourselves to the loft of the granary in the spruce wood, from whose window we could see the main road and hail Jerry. Sarah Ray had joined us, very pale and nervous, having had, so it appeared, a difference of opinion with her mother about coming up the hill in the rain. I'm afraid I did very wrong to come against Mars' will, she said miserably. But I couldn't wait. I wanted to see the picture as soon as you did. We waited and watched the window. The valley was full of mist and the rain was coming down in slanting lines over the top of the spruces. But as we waited, the clouds broke away and the sun came out flashingly. The drops on the spruce boughs glittered like diamonds. I don't believe Jerry can be coming, said Cecily in despair. I suppose his mother must have thought it was dreadful, after all, to sell such a picture. There he is now, cried Dan, waving excitedly from the window. He's carrying a fish basket, said Felicity. You surely don't suppose he would bring that picture in a fish basket? Jerry had brought it in a fish basket, as appeared when he mounted the granary stairs shortly afterwards. It was folded up in a newspaper packet, on top of the dried herring with which the basket was filled. We paid him his money, but we would not open the packet until he had gone. Cecily, said Felicity, in a hushed tone. You are the best of us all. You open the parcel. Oh, I'm no gooder than the rest of you, breathed Cecily, but I'll open it if you like. With trembling fingers, Cecily opened the parcel We stood around, hardly breathing She unfolded it and held it up We saw it Suddenly, Sarah began to cry Oh, oh, oh, does God look like that? She wailed Felix and I spoke not Disappointment and something worse sealed our speech Did God look like that? Like that stern, angrily frowning old man With the tossing hair and beard of the woodcut Cecily held? I suppose he must, since that is his picture said Dan miserably. He looks awfully cross, said Peter simply. Oh, I wish we'd never, never seen it, cried Cecily. We all wished that, too late. Our curiosity had led us into some holy of holies, not to be profaned by human eyes, and this was our punishment. I've always had a feeling right along, wept Sarah, that it wasn't right to buy or look at God's picture. As we stood there wretchedly, we heard flying feet below and a blithe voice calling. Where are you children? The story girl had returned. At any other moment we would have rushed to meet her in wild joy, but now we were too crushed and miserable to move. Whatever is the matter with you all, demanded the story girl, appearing at the top of the stairs. What is Sarah crying about? What have you got there? A picture of God, said Cecily, with a sob in her voice. And oh, it is so dreadful and ugly. Look. The story girl looked. An expression of scorn came over her face. Surely you don't believe God looks like that, she said impatiently, while her fine eyes flashed. He doesn't. He couldn't. He is wonderful and beautiful. I'm surprised at you. That is nothing but the picture of a cross old man. Hope sprang up in our hearts, although we were not wholly convinced. I don't know, said Dan dubiously. It says under the picture, God in the Garden of Eden. It is printed. Well, I suppose that's what the man who drew it thought God was like, answered the story girl carelessly. But he couldn't have known any more than you do. He had never seen him. It's all very well for you to say so, said Felicity But you don't know either I wish I could believe that isn't like God But I don't know what to believe Well, if you won't believe me I suppose you'll believe the minister, said the story girl Go and ask him He's in the house this very minute He came up with us in the buggy. At any other time, we never would have dared catechise the minister about anything. But desperate cases call for desperate measures. We drew straws to see who would go and do the asking, and the lot fell to Felix. Better wait until Mr. Marwood leaves and catch him in the lane, advised the story girl. You'll have a lot of grown-ups around you in the house. Felix took her advice. Mr. Marwood, presently walking benignly along the lane, was confronted by a fat, small boy with a pale face but resolute eyes. The rest of us remained in the background but within hearing. Well, Felix, what is it? asked Mr. Marwood kindly. Please, sir, does God really look like this? asked Felix, holding out the picture. We hope he doesn't, but we want to know the truth, and that is why I'm bothering you. Please excuse us and tell me. The minister looked at the picture A stern expression came into his gentle blue eyes and he got as near to frowning as it was possible for him to get Where did you get that thing? he asked Thing? we began to breathe easier We bought it from Jerry Cohen He found it in a red history of the world It says it God picture said Felix It nothing of the sort said Mr Marwood indignantly There is no such thing as a picture of God, Felix. No human being knows what he looks like. No human being can know. We should not even try to think what he looks like. But Felix, you may be sure that God is infinitely more beautiful and loving and tender and kind than anything we can imagine of him. Never believe anything else, my boy. As for this, this sacrilege, take it and burn it. We did not know what a sacrilege meant, but we knew that Mr. Marwood had declared that the picture was not like God. That was enough for us. We felt as if a terrible weight had been lifted from our minds. I could hardly believe the story, girl, but of course the minister knows, said Dan happily. We've lost fifty cents because of it, said Felicity. gloomily. We had lost something of infinitely more value than fifty cents, although we did not realize it just then. The minister's words had removed from our mind the bitter belief that God was like that picture, but on something deeper and more enduring than mind, an impression had been made that was never to be removed. The mischief was done. From that day to this, the thought or the mention of God brings up before us involuntarily the vision of a stern, angry old man. Such was the price we were to pay for the indulgence of a curiosity which each of us, deep in our hearts, had, like Sarah Ray, felt ought not to be gratified. Mr. Marwood told me to burn it, said Felix. It doesn't seem reverent to do that, said Cecily. Even if it isn't God's picture, it has his name on it. Bury it, said the story girl. We did bury it, after tea, in the depths of the spruce grove, and then we went into the orchard. It was so nice to have the story girl back again. She had wreathed her hair with Canterbury bells and looked like the incarnation of rhyme and story and dream. Canterbury Bells is a lovely name for a flower, isn't it? She said. It makes you think of cathedrals and chimes, doesn't it? Let's go over to Uncle Stephen's walk and sit on the branches of the big tree. It's too wet on the grass, and I know a story, a true story, about an old lady I saw in town at Aunt Louisa's. Such a dear old lady with lovely silver curls. After the rain, the air seemed dripping with odours in the warm west wind. The tang of fir balsam, the spice of mint, the wild woodsiness of ferns, the aroma of grasses steeping in the sunshine. and with it all a breath of wild sweetness from far hill pastures. Scattered through the grass in Uncle Stephen's walk were blossoming pale aerial flowers which had no name that we could ever discover. Nobody seemed to know anything about them. They had been there when Great Grandfather King brought the place. I've never seen them elsewhere or found them described in any floral catalogue. We called them the White Ladies. The story girl gave them that name. She said they looked like the souls of good women who had had to suffer much and had been very patient. They were wonderfully dainty, with a strange, faint, aromatic perfume which was only to be detected at a little distance and vanished if you bent over them. They faded soon after they were plucked, and, although strangers greatly admiring them often carried away roots and seeds, they could never be coaxed to grow elsewhere. My story is about Mrs Dunbar and the captain of the fanny, said the story girl, settling herself comfortably on a bough with her brown head against a gnarled trunk. It's sad and beautiful and true. I do love to tell stories that I know really happened. Mrs Dunbar lives next door to Aunt Louisa in town. She is so sweet. You wouldn't think to look at her that she had a tragedy in her life. But she has. Aunt Louisa told me the tale. It all happened long, long ago. Interesting things like this all did happen long ago, it seems to me. They never seem to happen now. This was in 49, when people were rushing to the gold fields in California. It was just like a fever, Aunt Louisa says. People took it right here on the island, and a number of young men determined they would go to California. It is easy to go to California now, but it was a very different matter then. There were no railroads across the land, as there are now, and if you want to go to California, you had to go in a sailing vessel, all the way round Cape Horn. It was a long and dangerous journey, and sometimes it took over six months. When you got there, you had no way of sending word home again, except by the same plan. It might be over a year before your people at home heard a word about you and fancy what their feelings would be. But these young men didn't think of these things. They were led only by a golden vision. They made all their arrangements and they chartered the brig fanny to take them to California. The captain of the fanny is the hero of my story. His name was Alan Dunbar, and he was young and handsome. Heroes always are, you know, but Aunt Louisa says he really was. And he was in love, wildly in love, with Margaret Grant. Margaret was as beautiful as a dream, with soft blue eyes and clouds of golden hair. and she loved Alan Dunbar just as much as he loved her. But her parents were bitterly opposed to him and they had forbid Margaret to see him or speak to him. They hadn't anything against him as a man but they didn't want her to throw her life away on a sailor. Well, when Alan Dunbar knew that he must go to California in the fanny he was in despair. He felt that he could never go so far away for so long and leave his Margaret behind. And Margaret felt that she could never let him go. I know exactly how she felt. How can you know, interrupted Peter suddenly. You ain't old enough to have a bow. How can you know? The story girl looked at Peter with a frown. She did not like to be interrupted when telling a story. Those are not things one knows about, she said with dignity. One feels about them. Peter, crushed but not convinced, subsided, and the story girl went on. Finally, Margaret ran away with Alan, and they were married in Charlottetown. Alan intended to take his wife with him to California in the fanny. If it was a hard journey for a man, it was harder still for a woman. But Margaret would have dared anything for Alan's sake. They had three days, only three days of happiness. and then the blow fell. The crew and the passengers of the Fanny refused to let Captain Dunbar take his wife with him. They told him he must leave her behind and all his prayers were of no avail. They say he stood on the deck of the Fanny and pleaded with the men while the tears ran down his face. But they would not yield and he had to leave Margaret behind. Oh, what a parting it was. There was heartbreak in the story girl's voice and tears came into her eyes. There, in the green bower of Uncle Stephen's walk, we cried over the pathos of a parting whose anguish had been stilled for many years. When it was all over, Margaret's father and mother forgave her, and she went back home to wait. To wait? Oh, it is so dreadful just to wait and do nothing else. Margaret waited for nearly a year. How long it must have seemed to her. And at last there came a letter, but not from Alan. Alan was dead. He had died in California and had been buried there. While Margaret had been thinking of him and longing for him and praying for him, he had been lying in his lonely, faraway grave. Cecily sprang up, shaking with sobs. Oh, don't, don't go on, she implored. I can't bear any more. There is no more, said the story girl. That was the end of it. The end of everything for Margaret. It didn't kill her, but her heart died. I just wish I'd hold of those fellows who wouldn't let the captain take his wife, said Peter, savagely. Well, it was awful sad, said Felicity, wiping her eyes. But it was long ago, and we can't do any good by crying over it now. Let us go and get something to eat. I made some nice little rhubarb tarts this morning. We went, in spite of new disappointments and old heartbreaks. We had appetites. And Felicity did make scrumptious rhubarb tarts. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.