music lesson and had consented to stay to tea, much to the
rapture of the said girls, who continued to worship her with unabated
and romantic ardour. To us, over the golden grasses, came the Story
Girl, carrying in her hand a single large poppy, like a blood-red
chalice filled with the wine of August wizardry. She proffered it to
Miss Reade and, as the latter took it into her singularly slender,
beautiful hand, I saw a ring on her third finger. I noticed it, because
I had heard the girls say that Miss Reade never wore rings, not liking
them. It was not a new ring; it was handsome, but of an old-fashioned
design and setting, with a glint of diamonds about a central sapphire.
Later on, when Miss Reade had gone, I asked the Story Girl if she had
noticed the ring. She nodded, but seemed disinclined to say more about
it.

"Look here, Sara," I said, "there's something about that ring--something
you know."

"I told you once there was a story growing but you would have to wait
until it was fully grown," she answered.

"Is Miss Reade going to marry anybody--anybody we know?" I persisted.

"Curiosity killed a cat," observed the Story Girl coolly. "Miss Reade
hasn't told me that she was going to marry anybody. You will find out
all that is good for you to know in due time."

When the Story Girl put on grown-up airs I did not like her so well, and
I dropped the subject with a dignity that seemed to amuse her mightily.

She had been away for a week, visiting cousins in Markdale, and she had
come home with a new treasure-trove of stories, most of which she had
heard from the old sailors of Markdale Harbour. She had promised that
morning to tell us of "the most tragic event that had ever been known on
the north shore," and we now reminded her of her promise.

"Some call it the 'Yankee Storm,' and others the 'American Gale,'" she
began, sitting down by Miss Reade and beaming, because the latter
put her arm around her waist. "It happened nearly forty years ago, in
October of 1851. Old Mr. Coles at the Harbour told me all about it. He
was a young man then and he says he can never forget that dreadful time.
You know in those days hundreds of American fishing schooners used to
come down to the Gulf every summer to fish mackerel. On one beautiful
Saturday night in this October of 1851, more than one hundred of these
vessels could be counted from Markdale Capes. By Monday night more than
seventy of them had been destroyed. Those which