icity said nothing. She kept looking down at the grass on which she
sat, absently pulling at the slender blades. Presently we saw two big
tears roll down over her cheeks. The Story Girl looked surprised.

"Are you crying because I'm going away, Felicity?" she asked.

"Of course I am," answered Felicity, with a big sob. "Do you think I've
no f-f-eeling?"

"I didn't think you'd care much," said the Story Girl frankly. "You've
never seemed to like me very much."

"I d-don't wear my h-heart on my sleeve," said poor Felicity, with an
attempt at dignity. "I think you m-might stay. Your father would let you
s-stay if you c-coaxed him."

"Well, you see I'd have to go some time," sighed the Story Girl,
"and the longer it was put off the harder it would be. But I do feel
dreadfully about it. I can't even take poor Paddy. I'll have to leave
him behind, and oh, I want you all to promise to be kind to him for my
sake."

We all solemnly assured her that we would.

"I'll g-give him cream every m-morning and n-night," sobbed Felicity,
"but I'll never be able to look at him without crying. He'll make me
think of you."

"Well, I'm not going right away," said the Story Girl, more cheerfully.
"Not till the last of October. So we have over a month yet to have a
good time in. Let's all just determine to make it a splendid month for
the last. We won't think about my going at all till we have to, and we
won't have any quarrels among us, and we'll just enjoy ourselves all we
possibly can. So don't cry any more, Felicity. I'm awfully glad you
do like me and am sorry I'm going away, but let's all forget it for a
month."

Felicity sighed, and tucked away her damp handkerchief.

"It isn't so easy for me to forget things, but I'll try," she said
disconsolately, "and if you want any more cooking lessons before you go
I'll be real glad to teach you anything I know."

This was a high plane of self-sacrifice for Felicity to attain. But the
Story Girl shook her head.

"No, I'm not going to bother my head about cooking lessons this last
month. It's too vexing."

"Do you remember the time you made the pudding--" began Peter, and
suddenly stopped.

"Out of sawdust?" finished the Story Girl cheerfully. "You needn't be
afraid to mention it to me after this. I don't mind any more. I begin to
see the fun of it now. I should think I do remember it--and the time I
baked the bread before it was raised enough."

"People have made worse mistakes