I said.

Peter, in his secret soul, was dismayed, but he would not blanch before
Felicity.

"All right," he said, recklessly.

"We can put anything we like in the scrap book department," I explained,
"but all the other contributions must be original, and all must have the
name of the writer signed to them, except the personals. We must all do
our best. Our Magazine is to be 'a feast of reason and flow of soul."'

I felt that I had worked in two quotations with striking effect. The
others, with the exception of the Story Girl, looked suitably impressed.

"But," said Cecily, reproachfully, "haven't you anything for Sara Ray to
do? She'll feel awful bad if she is left out."

I had forgotten Sara Ray. Nobody, except Cecily, ever did remember
Sara Ray unless she was on the spot. But we decided to put her in as
advertising manager. That sounded well and really meant very little.

"Well, we'll go ahead then," I said, with a sigh of relief that the
project had been so easily launched. "We'll get the first issue out
about the first of January. And whatever else we do we mustn't let Uncle
Roger get hold of it. He'd make such fearful fun of it."

"I hope we can make a success of it," said Peter moodily. He had been
moody ever since he was entrapped into being fiction editor.

"It will be a success if we are determined to succeed," I said. "'Where
there is a will there is always a way.'"

"That's just what Ursula Townley said when her father locked her in her
room the night she was going to run away with Kenneth MacNair," said the
Story Girl.

We pricked up our ears, scenting a story.

"Who were Ursula Townley and Kenneth MacNair?" I asked.

"Kenneth MacNair was a first cousin of the Awkward Man's grandfather,
and Ursula Townley was the belle of the Island in her day. Who do you
suppose told me the story--no, read it to me, out of his brown book?"

"Never the Awkward Man himself!" I exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes, he did," said the Story Girl triumphantly. "I met him one day
last week back in the maple woods when I was looking for ferns. He was
sitting by the spring, writing in his brown book. He hid it when he saw
me and looked real silly; but after I had talked to him awhile I just
asked him about it, and told him that the gossips said he wrote poetry
in it, and if he did would he tell me, because I was dying to know. He
said he wrote a little of everything in it; and then I begged him to
read me something out o