e, in
all its ripely tinted length and breadth, lay below us, basking in the
August sunshine, that spilled over the brim of the valley to the far-off
Markdale Harbour, cupped in its harvest-golden hills.

Then came a little valley overgrown with the pale purple bloom of
thistles and elusively haunted with their perfume. You say that thistles
have no perfume? Go you to a brook hollow where they grow some late
summer twilight at dewfall; and on the still air that rises suddenly to
meet you will come a waft of faint, aromatic fragrance, wondrously sweet
and evasive, the distillation of that despised thistle bloom.

Beyond this the path wound through a forest of fir, where a wood wind
wove its murmurous spell and a wood brook dimpled pellucidly among the
shadows--the dear, companionable, elfin shadows--that lurked under the
low growing boughs. Along the edges of that winding path grew banks
of velvet green moss, starred with clusters of pigeon berries. Pigeon
berries are not to be eaten. They are woolly, tasteless things. But they
are to be looked at in their glowing scarlet. They are the jewels with
which the forest of cone-bearers loves to deck its brown breast. Cecily
gathered some and pinned them on hers, but they did not become her.
I thought how witching the Story Girl's brown curls would have looked
twined with those brilliant clusters. Perhaps Cecily was thinking of it,
too, for she presently said,

"Bev, don't you think the Story Girl is changing somehow?"

"There are times--just times--when she seems to belong more among the
grown-ups than among us," I said, reluctantly, "especially when she puts
on her bridesmaid dress."

"Well, she's the oldest of us, and when you come to think of it, she's
fifteen,--that's almost grown-up," sighed Cecily. Then she added, with
sudden vehemence, "I hate the thought of any of us growing up. Felicity
says she just longs to be grown-up, but I don't, not a bit. I wish I
could just stay a little girl for ever--and have you and Felix and
all the others for playmates right along. I don't know how it is--but
whenever I think of being grown-up I seem to feel tired."

Something about Cecily's speech--or the wistful look that had crept into
her sweet brown eyes--made me feel vaguely uncomfortable; I was glad
that we were at the end of our journey, with Mr. Campbell's big house
before us, and his dog sitting gravely at the veranda steps.

"Oh, dear," said Cecily, with a shiver, "I'd b