There's enough true, int'resting things
going on around us to keep us busy without studying fakes, seems to me."

Now it happened that the mythological tales with which Miss Phelps
regaled her small charges from time to time were not a part of the
regular course of study laid out for her grade, and at this pupil's
blunt criticism, the teacher's face became scarlet; but she quickly
regained her poise, and turning to the school, asked, "How many of you
enjoy listening to these myths which I have been reading?"

A dozen wavering, uncertain hands went up. The rest remained clasped on
their desks.

The woman was astounded. "What kind of stories _do_ you like best?" she
faltered.

"Those in the new Readers," responded the pupils as with one voice.

Mechanically Miss Phelps reached for one of the volumes, and opening it
at random, read the New England tale of the Pine-tree Shillings to her
delighted audience.

Peace tried to center her thoughts upon what was being read, but the
lure of the Spring sunshine and blue sky was too great to be resisted;
and before the story was ended, she was again wandering in realms of her
own. Down by the river where the pussy willows grew, out in the
marshland where the cowslips soon would blow, up the gently sloping
hillside, far up where the tall shaft of marble stood sentinel over the
grave of her beloved Lilac Lady, she wandered, planning, planning what
she would do when the warm Spring sunshine had chased away the Frost
King for another year.

The book closed with a sudden snap, and the teacher demanded crisply,
"All who think they can tell the story as well as Johnny told us about
Ganymede, raise your hands."

Vaguely aware that Miss Phelps had told them to raise their hands, Peace
quickly shot one plump arm into the air and waved it frantically.

"Very well, Peace, you may begin."

Peace bounced to her feet. What was expected of her? Why had she raised
her hand?

"Aw, tell her about the pine-tree shillings," prompted boastful Johnny
in a whisper, and Peace plunged boldly into the half-heard story,
wondering within herself how she was going to end it respectably when
she did not know the true ending because her mind had been
wool-gathering.

"Once there was a man--a man--a man--" blundered the girl, trying in
vain to remember whether or not he had a name.

"Yes, a man," repeated the teacher impatiently. "Go on. Where did he
live and what did he do?"

"He lived in olden