All at once the Story Girl and Peter began to forge ahead in the matter of dreaming.  Their dreams suddenly became so lurid and dreadful and picturesque that it was hard for the rest of us to believe that they were not painting the lily rather freely in their accounts of them.  But the Story Girl was the soul of honour; and Peter, early in life, had had his feet set in the path of truthfulness by his Aunt Jane and had never been known to stray from it.  When they assured us solemnly that their dreams all happened exactly as they described them we were compelled to believe them.  But there was something up, we felt sure of that.  Peter and the Story Girl certainly had a secret between them, which they kept for a whole fortnight.  There was no finding it out from the Story Girl.  She had a knack of keeping secrets, anyhow; and, moreover, all that fortnight she was strangely cranky and petulant, and we found it was not wise to tease her.  She was not well, so Aunt Olivia told Aunt Janet.

“I don’t know what is the matter with the child,” said the former anxiously.  “She hasn’t seemed like herself the past two weeks.  She complains of headache, and she has no appetite, and she is a dreadful colour.  I’ll have to see a doctor about her if she doesn’t get better soon.”

“Give her a good dose of Mexican Tea and try that first,” said Aunt Janet.  “I’ve saved many a doctor’s bill in my family by using Mexican Tea.”

The Mexican Tea was duly administered, but produced no improvement in the condition of the Story Girl, who, however, went on dreaming after a fashion which soon made her dream book a veritable curiosity of literature.

“If we can’t soon find out what makes Peter and the Story Girl dream like that, the rest of us might as well give up trying to write dream books,” said Felix discontentedly.

Finally, we did find out.  Felicity wormed the secret out of Peter by the employment of Delilah wiles, such as have been the undoing of many a miserable male creature since Samson’s day.  She first threatened that she would never speak to him again if he didn’t tell her; and then she promised him that, if he did, she would let him walk beside her to and from Sunday School all the rest of the summer, and carry her books for her.  Peter was not proof against this double attack.  He yielded and told the secret.

I expected the Story Girl would overwhelm him with scorn and indignation.  But she took it very coolly.

“I knew Felicity would get it out of him sometime,” she said.  “I think he has done well to hold out this long.”

Peter and the Story Girl, so it appeared, had wooed wild dreams to their pillows by the simple device of eating rich, indigestible things before they went to bed.  Aunt Olivia knew nothing about it, of course.  She permitted them only a plain, wholesome lunch at bed-time.  But during the day the Story Girl would smuggle upstairs various tidbits from the pantry, putting half in Peter’s room and half in her own; and the result was these visions which had been our despair.