e fun gone."

"You can tell her all about it," comforted Felix.

"Telling isn't a bit like talking it over," retorted Cecily. "It's too
one-sided."

We had an exciting time opening our presents. Some of us had more than
others, but we all received enough to make us feel comfortably that we
were not unduly neglected in the matter. The contents of the box which
the Story Girl's father had sent her from Paris made our eyes stick out.
It was full of beautiful things, among them another red silk dress--not
the bright, flame-hued tint of her old one, but a rich, dark crimson,
with the most distracting flounces and bows and ruffles; and with it
were little red satin slippers with gold buckles, and heels that made
Aunt Janet hold up her hands in horror. Felicity remarked scornfully
that she would have thought the Story Girl would get tired wearing red
so much, and even Cecily commented apart to me that she thought when
you got so many things all at once you didn't appreciate them as much as
when you only got a few.

"I'd never get tired of red," said the Story Girl. "I just love it--it's
so rich and glowing. When I'm dressed in red I always feel ever so much
cleverer than in any other colour. Thoughts just crowd into my brain
one after the other. Oh, you darling dress--you dear, sheeny, red-rosy,
glistening, silky thing!"

She flung it over her shoulder and danced around the kitchen.

"Don't be silly, Sara," said Aunt Janet, a little stimy. She was a good
soul, that Aunt Janet, and had a kind, loving heart in her ample bosom.
But I fancy there were times when she thought it rather hard that the
daughter of a roving adventurer--as she considered him--like Blair
Stanley should disport herself in silk dresses, while her own daughters
must go clad in gingham and muslin--for those were the days when a
feminine creature got one silk dress in her lifetime, and seldom more
than one.

The Story Girl also got a present from the Awkward Man--a little,
shabby, worn volume with a great many marks on the leaves.

"Why, it isn't new--it's an old book!" exclaimed Felicity. "I didn't
think the Awkward Man was mean, whatever else he was."

"Oh, you don't understand, Felicity," said the Story Girl patiently.
"And I don't suppose I can make you understand. But I'll try. I'd ten
times rather have this than a new book. It's one of his own, don't you
see--one that he has read a hundred times and loved and made a friend
of. A new book, just