The Story Girl | Part 2 of 17 (Voice Only)

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My name's Andrew, thanks for joining me. Tonight I'll be continuing The Story Girl by L.M. Montgomery. Chapter 3 Legends of the Old Orchard and Chapter 4, The Wedding Vale of the Proud Princess. In the previous chapters, Beverly and Felix had arrived at their father's family home on Prince Edward Island late in the evening and had had supper with their cousins and auntie for the first time. In the morning they rose early before the others to explore the farm by themselves where they soon met Sarah, The Story Girl, and were immediately enchanted by her. We left them last as they headed towards the family's fabled orchard. 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 3 Legends of the Old Orchard Outside of the orchard, the grass was only beginning to grow green, but here sheltered by the spruce hedges from uncertain winds and sloping to the 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, penciled white violets at the base of the pulpit stone. It's all just as far the described it said Felix with a blissful sigh. And there's the well with the Chinese roof. We harried over to it, treading on the spears of mint that were beginning to shoot up about it. It was a very deep well and the curb was of rough, undressed stones. Over it, the strange pagoda-like roof built by Uncle Stephen on his return from a voyage to China was covered with yet leafless vines. It's so pretty when the vine leaves come out and hang down in long for stums said the story-girl. The birds build their nests in it, a pair of wild canaries come here every summer and ferns grow out between the stones of the well as far down as you can see. The water is lovely. Uncle Edward preached his finest sermon about the Bethlehem well where David's soldiers went to get him water and he illustrated it by describing his old well at the homestead. This very well and how in foreign lands he had longed for its sparkling water. So you see, it is quite famous. There's a cup just like the one that used to be here in far this time exclaimed Felix pointing to an old-fashioned shallow cup of clouded blueware on a little shelf inside the curb. It is the very same cup said the story-girl impressively. Isn't it an amazing thing? This cup has been here for forty years and hundreds of people have drunk from it and it has never been broken. Aren't Julia dropped it down the well once but they fished it up, not hurt a bit except for that little nigg on the rim. I think it is bound up with the fortunes of the King family like the luck of the Eden Hall in Longfellow's poem. It is the last cup of Grandmother King's second best said. Her best said is still complete. Aren't Julia has it? You must get her to show it to you. It's so pretty, with red berries all over it and the funniest little pot-bellied cream jug. Aren't Julia never uses it except on a family anniversary. We took a drink from the blue cup and then went to find our birth day trees. We were rather disappointed to find them quite large, sturdy ones. It seemed to us that they should still be in the sapling stage corresponding to our boyhood. Your apples are lovely to eat, the story-girl said to me. That Felix's are only good for pies. Those two big trees behind them are the twins' trees. My mother and uncle Felix, you know. The apples are so dead sweet that nobody but us children and the French boys can eat them. And that tall slender tree over there with the branches all growing straight up is a seedling that came up off itself. Nobody can eat its apples. They are so sour and bitter. Even the pigs won't eat them. Aren't Janet tried to make pies of them once because she said she hated to see them going to waste, but she never tried again. She said it was better to waste apples alone than apples and sugar too. And then she tried to give them away to the French hidemen, but they wouldn't even carry them home. The story-girl's words fell on the morning air like pearls and diamonds. Even her prepositions and conjunctions had untold charm, hinting at mystery and laughter and magic, bound up in everything she mentioned. Purple pies and sour seedlings and pigs became straight way invested with a glamour of romance. I like to hear you talk, said Felix and his grave stawd she way. Everybody does, said the story-girl, calmly. I'm glad you liked the way I talk, but I want you to like me too, as well as you like Felicity and Cessily. Not better. I wanted that once, but I've got over it. I found out in Sunday school the day the minister taught our class that it was selfish, but I want you to like me as well. Well, I will for one, said Felix sympathically. I think he was remembering that Felicity had called him fat. Cessily now joined us. It appeared that it was Felicity's morning to help prepare breakfast, therefore she could not come. We all went to Uncle Stevens' walk. This was a double row of apple trees, running down the west-and-side of the orchard. Uncle Stevens was the first born of Abram and Elizabeth King. He had none of Grandfather's abiding love for woots and meadows and the kindly waves of the warm red earth. Grandmother King had been award, and in Uncle Stevens the blood of the sea-faring race claimed its own. To see he must go. Light the pleading and tears of a reluctant mother, and it was from the sea he came to set out his avenue in the orchard with trees brought from a foreign land. Then he sailed away again, and the ship was never heard of more. The grey first came in Grandmother's brown hair in those months of waiting. For the first time, the orchard heard the sound of weeping and was consecrated by sorrow. When the blossoms come out, it's wonderful to walk here, set the story-gale. It's like a dream of fairyland, as if you were walking in a king's palace. The apples are delicious, and in winter it's a splendid place for coasting. From the walk we went to the pulpit stone, a huge grey boulder as high as a man's head in the south-eastern corner. It was straight and smooth in front, but it sloped down in natural steps behind, with a ledge midway on which one could stand. It had played an important part in the games of our uncles and aunts, being fortified in the castle, Indian ambush, throne, pulpit or concert platform as occasion required. Uncle Edward had preached his first sermon at the age of eight from that old grey boulder, and Aunt Julia, whose voice was to delight thousands sang her earliest madrigals there. The story-gale mounted to the ledge, sat on the rim, and looked at us. Pat sat gravely at its base, and daintily washed his face with his black paws. "'Now for your story is about the orchard,' said I. "'There are two important ones,' said the story-gale. The story of the poet who was kissed, and the tale of the family ghost. Which one should I tell?' "'Tell them both,' said Felix Greedley. "'But tell the ghost one first.' "'I don't know,' the story-gale looked dubious. That sort of story ought to be told in the twilight among the shadows, and it would frighten the souls out of your bodies. We thought it might be more agreeable not to have the souls frightened out of our bodies, and we voted for the family ghost. Ghost stories are more comfortable in daytime,' said Felix. The story-gale began it, and we listened, avidly. Possessily, who had heard it many times before, listened just as eagerly as we did. She declared to me afterwards, and no matter how often the story-gale told the story, it always seemed as new and as exciting as if you just heard it for the first time. "'Long, long ago, again the story-gale. A voice giving us an impression of remote antiquity. Even before Grandfather King was born, an orphan cousin of his lived here with his parents. Her name was Emily King. She was very small and very sweet. She had soft brown eyes that were too timid to look straight to anybody, like Cecilise and long sleek brown curls, like mine. And she had a tiny birthmark like a pink butterfly on one cheek, right there. Of course, there was no orchard here then. It was just a field, but there was a clump of white birches in it, right where that big spreading tree of uncle Alex is now. And Emily liked to sit among the ferns under the birches and read or so. She had a lover. His name was Malcolm Ward, and he was at handsome as a prince. She loved him with all her heart, and he loved her the same, but they had never spoken about it. They used to meet under the birches and talk about everything except love. One day he told her he was coming the next day to ask a very important question, and he wanted to find her under the birches when he came. Emily promised to meet him there. I am sure she stayed awake that night thinking about it and wondering what the important question would be, though she knew perfectly well. I would have. And the next day she dressed herself beautifully in her best pale blue muslin and sleeped her curls and went smiling to the birches. And whilst she was waiting there, thinking such lovely thoughts, a neighbor's boy came running up, a boy who didn't know about her romance, and cried out that Malcolm Ward had been killed by his gun going off accidentally. Emily just put her hands to her heart, so, and fell, all white and broken among the ferns. And when she came back to life, she never cried, all amended. She was changed. 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. She got pale and pale every day. But the pink butterfly grew redder, until it looked just like a stain of blood on her white cheek. And the winter came, she died. But next spring, the story girl dropped her voice to a whisper that was just as audible and dwindling as her louder tones. People began to tell that Emily was sometimes seen waiting under the birches still. Nobody knew just who told it first, but more than one person saw her. Grandfather saw her when he was a little boy, and my mother saw her once. Did you ever see her? Asked Felix skeptically. No, but I shall someday, if I keep on believing in her, set the story girl confidently. I wouldn't like to see her. I'd be afraid, said Sessily, with a shiver. There wouldn't be anything to be afraid of, said the story girl reassuringly. It's not as if it were a strange ghost. It's our own family ghost, so of course it wouldn't hurt us. We were not sure of this. Ghosts were unchancy, folks, even if they were our family ghost. The story girl had made the tale very real to us. We were glad we had not heard it in the evening. How could we have ever got back to the house through the shadows and swing branches of the darkening orchard? As it was, we were almost afraid to look up at it, lest we should see the way it was. We were waiting, blue-clad Emily under uncle Alex tree. But all we saw was Felicity tearing over the green swan, her curls streaming behind her in a golden cloud. Felicity is afraid she's missing something remarked the story girl in a tone of quiet amusement. Is your breakfast ready Felicity? Or have I time to tell the boys the story of the poet who's kissed? Breakfast is ready, but we can't have it till father is through attending to the sick cow, so you will likely have time, answered Felicity. Felix and I couldn't keep our eyes off her. Crimson cheat, shining eyed from her haste. Her face was like a room of youth. But when the story girl spoke, we forgot about Felicity. About ten years after grandfather and grandmother King were married, a young man came to visit them. He was a distant relative of grandmothers, and he was a poet. He was just beginning to be famous. He was very famous afterwards. He came into the orchard to write a poem, and he fell asleep with his head on a bench that used to be underground father's tree. Then great-hunt Edith came into the orchard. She was not a great-hunt then, of course. She was only eighteen, with red lips and black, black hair and eyes. They say she was always full of mischief. She had been away and had just come home, and she didn't know about the poet. But when she saw him, sleeping there, she thought he was a cousin they'd been expecting from Scotland, and she tipped toadab, just so, bent over, and kissed his cheek. When he opened his big blue eyes and looked up into Edith's face, she blashed as red as a rose, but she knew she had done a dreadful thing. This could not be her cousin from Scotland. She knew, for he had written so to her, that he had eyes as black as her own. Edith ran away and hid, and of course she felt still worse when she found out that he was a famous poet. But he wrote one of the most beautiful poems on it afterwards, and sent it to her, and it was published in one of his books. We had seen it all, the sleeping genius, the rogue-ish red-lipped girl. The kiss dropped as lightly as a rose-petal on the sun-burned cheek. They should have gotten married, said Felix. Well, in a book they would have, but you see this was real life, said the story-girl. We sometimes act the story out. I like it when Peter plays the poet. I don't like it when Dan is the poet, because he's so freckled and screws his eyes up so tight. But you can hardly have a coaxed Peter to be the poet, except when Felicity is Edith, and Dan is so obliging that way. What is Peter like, I asked? Peter is splendid. His mother lives on the mark day on road and washes for a living. Peter's father ran away and left them when Peter was only three years old. He's never come back, and they don't know whether he is alive or dead. Isn't that a nice way to behave to your family? Peter has worked for his board ever since he was six. Uncle Roger sends him to school and pays him wages in the summer. We all like Peter, except Felicity. I like Peter well enough in his place, said Felicity, primly. But you make far too much of him, mother says. He is only a hired boy, and he hasn't been well brought up, and hasn't much education. I don't think you should make such an equal off him as you do. Laughter rippled over the story-girl's face as shadow waves go over ripe wheat before a wind. Peter is a real gentleman, and he is more interesting than you could ever be if you were brought up and educated for a hundred years, she said. He can hardly write, said Felicity. William the Conqueror couldn't write at all, said the story-girl crushingly. He never goes to church, and he never says his prayers, retorted Felicity, uncrashed. I do too, sent Peter himself, suddenly appearing through a little gap in the hedge. I say my prayers sometimes. This Peter was a slim, shapely fellow, with laughing black eyes and thick black curls. Only in the season as it was, he was bare-footed. His attire consisted of a faded gingen shirt and a scanty pair of cord-dry nicker-bockers. But he wore it with such an unconscious air of purple and fine linen that he seemed to be much better dressed than he actually was. You don't pray very often, insisted Felicity. Well, God will be all the more likely to listen to me if I don't pestle him all the time, argue Peter. This was rank-heresy to Felicity, but the story-girl looked as if she thought there might be something in it. You never go to church anyhow, continued Felicity, determined not to be argued down. Well, I ain't going to church till I've made my mind up whether I'm going to be a Methodist or Presbyterian. Aunt Jane was a Methodist. My mother ain't much of anything, but I mean to be something. It's more respectable to be a Methodist or Presbyterian or something than not to be anything. When I've settled what I'm going to be, I'll go to church, same as you. That's not the same as being born something said Felicity, loftily. I think it's a good deal better to pick your own religion than have to take it because it's just what your folks had, retorted Peter. Now, never mind quarreling, said Sessily. You leave Peter alone Felicity. Peter, this is Beverly King, and this is Felix, and we're all going to be good friends and have a lovely summer together. Think of the games we can have. But if you go squabbling, you'll spoil it all. Peter, what are you going to do today? Throw the woodfield and dig you aren't to live these flower beds. Aunt Olivia and I plant its sweet peas yesterday, said the story girl, and I planted a little bed of my own. I'm not going to dig though up this year to see if they have sprouted. It's bad for them. I shall try to cultivate patience, no matter how long they are coming up. I'm going to help Mother Plant the vegetable garden today, said Felicity. Oh, I never liked the vegetable garden, said story girl, except when I'm hungry. Then I do like to go and look at the nice little rows of onions and beets. But I love a flower garden. I think I could always be good if I lived in a garden all the time. And a manoe if lived in a garden all the time, said Felicity, and they were far from being always good. They might not have kept good as long as they did if they hadn't lived in a garden, said the story girl. We were now summoned to breakfast. Peter and the story girl slipped away through the gap, followed by Paddy, and the rest of us walked up the orchard to the house. Well, what do you think of the story girl asked Felicity? She's just fine, said Felix enthusiastically. I never heard anything like her to tell stories. She can't cook, said Felicity, and she hasn't a good complexion. And she says she's going to be an actress when she grows up. Isn't that dreadful? We didn't exactly see why. Oh, because actresses are always wicked people, said Felicity, in a shocked tone. But I dare say the story girl will go and be one just as soon as she can, and father will back her up in it. He is an artist, you know. Evidently Felicity thought artists and actresses, and all such poor trash, were members of one another. Antelidia says the story girl is fascinating, said Cessli. The very adjective, Felix and I recognised its beautiful fitness at once. Yes, the story girl was fascinating, and that was the final word to be said on the subject. Dan did not come down until breakfast was half over, and Aunt Janet talked to him after a fashion which made us realise that it would be well to keep, as Picant country phrases went, from the rough side of her tongue. But all things considered, we liked the prospect of our summer very much. Felicity to look at, the story girl to tell us tales of wonder, Cessli to admire us. Dan and Peter to play with, what more could reasonable fellows want? Chapter 4 The wedding veil of the proud princess When we had lived for a fortnight in Carlyle, we belonged there, and the freedom of all its small fry was conferred at, with Peter and Dan, with Felicity and Cessli and the story girl, with pale grey-eyed little Sarah Ray. We were boom companions. We went to school of course, and certain home jaws were assigned to each of us for the faithful performance of which we held responsibility. But we had long hours for play. Even Peter had plenty of spare time when the planting was over. We got along very well with each other in the main, in spite of some minor differences of opinion. As for the grown-up denizens of our small world, they suited us also. We adored Aunt Olivia. She was pretty and merry and kind, and above all she had mastered to perfection the rare art of letting children alone. Since we kept ourselves tolerably clean and refrained from quarreling or talking slang, Aunt Olivia did not worry us. Aunt Janet, on the contrary, gave us too much good advice, and was so constantly telling us to do this or not to do the other thing, and we could not remember half her instructions and did not try. The Roger was, as we'd been informed, quite jolly and fond of teasing. We liked him, but we had an uncomfortable feeling that the meaning of his remarks was not always that which met the year. Sometimes we believed Uncle Roger was making fun of us, and the deadly seriousness of youth in us resented that. To Uncle Alec we gave our warmest love. We felt that we always had a friend at court in Uncle Alec, no matter what we did, or left undone. And we never had to turn his speeches inside out to discover their meaning. The social life of juvenile car-lile centered in the day and Sunday schools. We were specially interested in our Sunday school, for we were fortunate enough to be assigned to a teacher who made our lessons so interesting that we no longer regarded Sunday school attendance as disagreeable. But instead looked forward to it with pleasure, and tried to carry out our teacher's gentle precepts, at least on Mondays and Tuesdays. I'm afraid the remembrance grew a little dim for rest of the week. He 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 account. The only thing she could think of, along this line, was to persuade Peter to go to church. Felicity did not approve of the design, and said so plainly. He won't know how to behave, for he's never been inside a church door in his life, she warned the story-girl. He'll likely do something awful, and then you'll feel ashamed, and we should never ask him to go, and we'll all be disgraced. It's all right to have our might boxes for the heathen, and send missionaries to them. We're far away, and we don't have to associate with them, but I don't want to have to sit in a pew with a hired boy. But the story-girl undoubtedly continued to coax the reluctant Peter. It was not an easy matter. Peter did not come of church-going stock, and besides, he alleged he had not yet made up his mind whether to be a press-butarian or a Methodist. It isn't a bit of difference which you are, pleaded the story-girl. They both go to heaven. But one way must be easier or better than the other, or else they'd all be one kind, a hogged Peter. I want to find the easiest way, and I've got a hankering after the Methodists. My aunt Jane was a Methodist. Isn't she one still, asked Felicity, perdly? Well, I don't exactly know. She's dead, said Peter, rebukingly. Do people go on being just the same after they're dead? No, of course not. They're angels then. Not Methodists or anything, but just angels. That is, if they go to heaven. Suppose they went to the other place. But Felicity's theology broke down at this point. She turned her back on Peter, and walked distinctfully away. The story-girl returned to the main point with a new argument. We have such a lovely minister, Peter. He looks just like the picture of St John, my father sent me. Only he is old, and his hair is white. I know you'd like him. And even if you are going to be a Methodist, it won't hurt you to go to the Presbyterian Church. The nearest Methodist Church is six miles away at Markdale, and you can't attend there just now. Go to the Presbyterian Church until you're old enough to have a horse. But suppose and I got to fond of being Presbyterian and couldn't change if I wanted to, objected Peter. All together, the story-girl had a hard time of it, but she persevered, and one day she came to us with the announcement that Peter had a yielded. He's going to church with us tomorrow, she said triumphantly. We were out in Uncle Roger's heel pasture, sitting on some smooth round stones under a clump of birches. Behind us was an old grey fence, with violets and a dandelion stick in its corners. Below us was the Carlyle Valley, with its orchard-emboweled homesteads and fertile meadows. Its upper end was dim with a delicate spring mist. Wings blew up the field like wave upon wave of sweet saver, spice of bracken and balsam. We were eating little jam, turnovers, which Felicity had made for us. Felicity's turnovers were perfection. I looked at her and wondered why it was not enough that she should be so pretty and capable of making such turnovers. If she were only more interesting, Felicity had not a particle of the nameless charm and allumant which hung about every motion of the story-girl and made itself manifest in her lightest word and most careless glance. And well, one cannot have every good gift. The story-girl had no dimples at her slim brown wrists. We all enjoyed our turnovers except Sarah Ray. She ate hers, but she knew she should not have done so. Her mother did not approve of snacks between meals, or of jam turnovers at any time. And when Sarah was in a brown study, I asked her what she was thinking of. I am trying to think of something Ma hasn't forbid, she answered with a sigh. We were all glad to hear that Peter was going to church, except Felicity. She was full of gloomy foreboding and warnings. I am surprised at you, Felicity King, said ceasely severely. You ought to be glad that poor boy is going to get started in the right way. There's a great big patch on his best pair of trousers, protested Felicity. Well, that's better than a whole, said the story-girl, addressing herself nainterly to the turnover. God won't notice the patch. No, but the car-lile people will, retorted Felicity, in a tone which implied that what the car-lile people thought was far more important. And I don't believe that Peter has got a decent stocking to his name. What will you feel like if he goes to church with the skin of his legs showing through the holes, Miss Storygirl? I'm not a bit afraid, said the story-girl staunchly. Peter knows better than that. Well, all I hope is that he'll wash behind his ears, said Felicity residedly. How is Pat today, asked ceasely by way of changing conversation? Pat isn't a bit better. He just moops about the kitchen, said the story-girl anxiously. I went out to the barn, and I saw a mouse. I had a stick in my hand, and I fetched a swipe at it. I killed it stone-dead, and then I took it to patty. Well, you believe it, he wouldn't even look at it. I'm so worried. Uncle Roger says he needs a dose of physics. But how is he to be made to take it? That's the question. I mixed a powder in some milk, and tried to pour it down his throat whilst Peter held him. Just look at the scratches I got, and the milk went everywhere except down Pat's throat. Wouldn't it be awful if, if anything happened to Pat, whispered ceasely? Well, we could have a journey funeral, you know, said Dan. We looked at him in such horror that Dan hastened to apologise. I'd be awful sorry myself if Pat died, but if he did, we'd have to give him the right kind of funeral, he protested. Why, Patty just seems like one of the family. The story girl finished her turn over and stretched herself out on the grasses, pillowing her chin in her hands and looking at the sky. She was bare-headed as usual, and her scarlet ribbon was bound filetwise about her head. She had twin-d freshly plucked dandelions around it, and the effect was that of a crown of brilliant, golden stars on her sleek brown curls. Look at that long, thin, lacy cloud up there, she said. What does it make you think of girls? A wedding veil, said Ceasely. That is just what it is. The wedding veil of the proud Prince Ceas. I know a story about it, I read it in a book. Once upon a time, the story girl's eyes grew dreamy. Her accents floated away on the summer air like wind-blown rose petals. There was a princess who was the most beautiful princess in the world, and kings from all lands came to woo her for a bride. She was as proud as she was beautiful. She laughed all her suitors to scorn, and when her father urged her to choose one of them as her husband, she drew herself up orderly. The story girl sprang to her feet, and for a moment we saw the proud Princess of the old tale in all her scornful loveliness. And she said, I will not wait until a king comes who can conquer all kings. Then I shall be the wife of the king of the world, and no one can hold herself higher than I. So every king went to war to prove that he could conquer everyone else, and there was a great deal of bloodshed and misery. But the proud Princess laughed and sang, and she and her maidens worked at a beautiful lace veil which she meant to wear when the king of all kings came. It was a very beautiful veil, but her maidens whispered that a man had died, and a woman's heart had broken for every stitch it was set with. Just when a king thought he had conquered everybody, some other king would come and conquer him. And so it went on until it did not seem likely the proud Princess would ever get her husband at all. But still her pride was so great that she would not yield, even though everybody except the kings who wanted to marry her hated her for the suffering she had caused. One day a horn was blown at the palace gate, and there was one tall man in complete armor with his visor down, riding on a white horse. When he said he had come to marry the Princess, everyone laughed, for he had no red new and no beautiful apparel and no golden crown. But I am the king who conquers all kings, he said. You must prove it before I shall marry you, said the proud Princess. But she trembled and turned pale, for there was something in his voice that frightened her, and when he laughed, his laughter was still more dreadful. I can easily prove it, beautiful Princess, he said. But you must go with me to the kingdom for the proof. Marry me now, and you and I and your father and all your court will ride straight way to my kingdom, and if you are not satisfied then that I am the king who conquers all kings, you may give me back my ring and return home free of me forevermore. It was a strange ruin, and the friends of the Princess begged her to refuse. But her pride whispered that it would be such a wonderful thing to be the queen of the king of all the world. So she consented, and her maiden stressed her, and put on the long lace veil that had been so many years in making. Then they were married at once, but the bridegroom never lifted his visor, and no one saw his face. The proud princess held herself more proudly than ever, but she was as white as a veil, and there was no laughter or merry-making, such as subiet wedding, and everyone looked at everyone else with fear in their eyes. After the wedding, the bridegroom lifted his bride before him on his white horse, and her father and all the members of his court mounted to, and rode after them. On and on they rode, and the skies grew darker, and the wind blew and wailed, and the shades of evening came down. Most in the twilight they rode into a dark valley, filled with tombs and graves. Why have you brought me here, cried the proud princess angrily? This is my kingdom, he answered. These are the tombs of the kings I have conquered. Behold me, beautiful princess. I am death. He lifted his visor. All saw his awful face. The proud princess shrieked. Come to my arms, my bride, he cried. I have won you fairly. I am the king who conquers all kings. He classed her faint form to his breast, and spurred his white horse to the tombs. The tempest of rain broke over the valley and blotted them from sight. Very sadly the old king and courtiers rode home, and never, never again, did human eye behold the proud princess. But when those long white clouds swept across the sky, the country people in the land where she lived said, look you, there is the wedding veil of the proud princess. The weird spell of the tale rested on us for some moment's after the story girl had finished. We had walked with her in the place of death and grown cold with the horror that chilled the heart of the poor princess. Damn, presently broke the spell. You see, it doesn't do to be too proud fornicity, he remarked, giving her a poke. You'd better not say too much about Peter's patches.