er soft eyes seemed larger, and that over her little face in moments of
repose there was a certain languor and weariness that made it very sweet
and pathetic. And I heard him tell Aunt Janet that he did not like to
see the child getting so much the look of her Aunt Felicity.

"Cecily is perfectly well," said Aunt Janet sharply. "She's only growing
very fast. Don't be foolish, Alec."

But after that Cecily had cups of cream where the rest of us got only
milk; and Aunt Janet was very particular to see that she had her rubbers
on whenever she went out.

On this merry Christmas evening, however, no fears or dim foreshadowings
of any coming event clouded our hearts or faces. Cecily looked brighter
and prettier than I had ever seen her, with her softly shining eyes and
the nut brown gloss of her hair. Felicity was too beautiful for words;
and even the Story Girl, between excitement and the crimson silk array,
blossomed out with a charm and allurement more potent than any regular
loveliness--and this in spite of the fact that Aunt Olivia had tabooed
the red satin slippers and mercilessly decreed that stout shoes should
be worn.

"I know just how you feel about it, you daughter of Eve," she said, with
gay sympathy, "but December roads are damp, and if you are going to
walk to Marrs' you are not going to do it in those frivolous Parisian
concoctions, even with overboots on; so be brave, dear heart, and show
that you have a soul above little red satin shoes."

"Anyhow," said Uncle Roger, "that red silk dress will break the hearts
of all the feminine small fry at the party. You'd break their spirits,
too, if you wore the slippers. Don't do it, Sara. Leave them one wee
loophole of enjoyment."

"What does Uncle Roger mean?" whispered Felicity.

"He means you girls are all dying of jealousy because of the Story
Girl's dress," said Dan.

"I am not of a jealous disposition," said Felicity loftily, "and she's
entirely welcome to the dress--with a complexion like that."

But we enjoyed that party hugely, every one of us. And we enjoyed the
walk home afterwards, through dim, enshadowed fields where silvery
star-beams lay, while Orion trod his stately march above us, and a red
moon climbed up the black horizon's rim. A brook went with us part of
the way, singing to us through the dark--a gay, irresponsible vagabond
of valley and wilderness.

Felicity and Peter walked not with us. Peter's cup must surely have
brimmed over that C