“They’d like to stop us from dreaming altogether if they could,” said the Story Girl wrathfully.

“Well, anyway, they can’t prevent us from growing up,” consoled Dan.

“We needn’t worry about the bread and milk rule,” added Felicity.  “Ma made a rule like that once before, and kept it for a week, and then we just slipped back to the old way.  That will be what will happen this time, too.  But of course we won’t be able to get any more rich things for supper, and our dreams will be pretty flat after this.”

“Well, let’s go down to the Pulpit Stone and I’ll tell you a story I know,” said the Story Girl.

We went—­and straightway drank of the waters of forgetfulness.  In a brief space we were laughing right merrily, no longer remembering our wrongs at the hands of those cruel grown-ups.  Our laughter echoed back from the barns and the spruce grove, as if elfin denizens of upper air were sharing in our mirth.

Presently, also, the laughter of the grown-ups mingled with ours.  Aunt Olivia and Uncle Roger, Aunt Janet and Uncle Alec, came strolling through the orchard and joined our circle, as they sometimes did when the toil of the day was over, and the magic time ’twixt light and dark brought truce of care and labour.  ’Twas then we liked our grown-ups best, for then they seemed half children again.  Uncle Roger and Uncle Alec lolled in the grass like boys; Aunt Olivia, looking more like a pansy than ever in the prettiest dress of pale purple print, with a knot of yellow ribbon at her throat, sat with her arm about Cecily and smiled on us all; and Aunt Janet’s motherly face lost its every-day look of anxious care.

The Story Girl was in great fettle that night.  Never had her tales sparkled with such wit and archness.

“Sara Stanley,” said Aunt Olivia, shaking her finger at her after a side-splitting yarn, “if you don’t watch out you’ll be famous some day.”

“These funny stories are all right,” said Uncle Roger, “but for real enjoyment give me something with a creep in it.  Sara, tell us that story of the Serpent Woman I heard you tell one day last summer.”

The Story Girl began it glibly.  But before she had gone far with it, I, who was sitting beside her, felt an unaccountable repulsion creeping over me.  For the first time since I had known her I wanted to draw away from the Story Girl.  Looking around on the faces of the group, I saw that they all shared my feeling.  Cecily had put her hands over her eyes.  Peter was staring at the Story Girl with a fascinated, horror-strickened gaze.  Aunt Olivia was pale and troubled.  All looked as if they were held prisoners in the bonds of a fearsome spell which they would gladly break but could not.

It was not our Story Girl who sat there, telling that weird tale in a sibilant, curdling voice.  She had put on a new personality like a garment, and that personality was a venomous, evil, loathly thing.  I would rather have died than have touched the slim, brown wrist on which she supported herself.  The light in her narrowed orbs was the cold, merciless gleam of the serpent’s eye.  I felt frightened of this unholy creature who had suddenly come in our dear Story Girl’s place.