“I don’t believe that,” said the Story Girl airily.

“Don’t you?  All right, then!  Last summer she called at Lem Hill’s in Markdale, and he told her to clear out or he’d set the dog on her.  Peg cleared out, and she went across his pasture, muttering to herself and throwing her arms round.  And next day his very best cow took sick and died.  How do you account for that?”

“It might have happened anyhow,” said the Story Girl—­somewhat less assuredly, though.

“It might.  But I’d just as soon Peg Bowen didn’t look at MY cows,” said Peter.

“As if you had any cows!” giggled Felicity.

“I’m going to have cows some day,” said Peter, flushing.  “I don’t mean to be a hired boy all my life.  I’ll have a farm of my own and cows and everything.  You’ll see if I won’t.”

“I dreamed last night that we opened the blue chest,” said the Story Girl, “and all the things were there—­the blue china candlestick—­only it was brass in the dream—­and the fruit basket with the apple on it, and the wedding dress, and the embroidered petticoat.  And we were laughing, and trying the things on, and having such fun.  And Rachel Ward herself came and looked at us—­so sad and reproachful—­and we all felt ashamed, and I began to cry, and woke up crying.”

“I dreamed last night that Felix was thin,” said Peter, laughing.  “He did look so queer.  His clothes just hung loose, and he was going round trying to hold them on.”

Everybody thought this was funny, except Felix.  He would not speak to Peter for two days because of it.  Felicity also got into trouble because of her dreams.  One night she woke up, having just had a very exciting dream; but she went to sleep again, and in the morning she could not remember the dream at all.  Felicity determined she would never let another dream get away from her in such a fashion; and the next time she wakened in the night—­having dreamed that she was dead and buried—­she promptly arose, lighted a candle, and proceeded to write the dream down then and there.  While so employed she contrived to upset the candle and set fire to her nightgown—­a brand-new one, trimmed with any quantity of crocheted lace.  A huge hole was burned in it, and when Aunt Janet discovered it she lifted up her voice with no uncertain sound.  Felicity had never received a sharper scolding.  But she took it very philosophically.  She was used to her mother’s bitter tongue, and she was not unduly sensitive.

“Anyhow, I saved my dream,” she said placidly.

And that, of course, was all that really mattered.  Grown people were so strangely oblivious to the truly important things of life.  Material for new garments, of night or day, could be bought in any shop for a trifling sum and made up out of hand.  But if a dream escape you, in what market-place the wide world over can you hope to regain it?  What coin of earthly minting will ever buy back for you that lost and lovely vision?