From the Walk we went to the Pulpit Stone—­a huge gray boulder, as high as a man’s head, in the southeastern corner.  It was straight and smooth in front, but sloped down in natural steps behind, with a ledge midway on which one could stand.  It had played an important part in the games of our uncles and aunts, being fortified castle, Indian ambush, throne, pulpit, or concert platform, as occasion required.  Uncle Edward had preached his first sermon at the age of eight from that old gray boulder; and Aunt Julia, whose voice was to delight thousands, sang her earliest madrigals there.

The Story Girl mounted to the ledge, sat on the rim, and looked at us.  Pat sat gravely at its base and daintily washed his face with his black paws.

“Now for your stories about the orchard,” said I.

“There are two important ones,” said the Story Girl.  “The story of the Poet Who Was Kissed, and the Tale of the Family Ghost.  Which one shall I tell?”

“Tell them both,” said Felix greedily, “but tell the ghost one first.”

“I don’t know.”  The Story Girl looked dubious.  “That sort of story ought to be told in the twilight among the shadows.  Then it would frighten the souls out of your bodies.”

We thought it might be more agreeable not to have the souls frightened out of our bodies, and we voted for the Family Ghost.

“Ghost stories are more comfortable in daytime,” said Felix.

The Story Girl began it and we listened avidly.  Cecily, who had heard it many times before, listened just as eagerly as we did.  She declared to me afterwards that no matter how often the Story Girl told a story it always seemed as new and exciting as if you had just heard it for the first time.

“Long, long ago,” began the Story Girl, her voice giving us an impression of remote antiquity, “even before Grandfather King was born, an orphan cousin of his lived here with his parents.  Her name was Emily King.  She was very small and very sweet.  She had soft brown eyes that were too timid to look straight at anybody—­ like Cecily’s there—­and long, sleek, brown curls—­like mine; and she had a tiny birthmark like a pink butterfly on one cheek—­right here.

“Of course, there was no orchard here then.  It was just a field; but there was a clump of white birches in it, right where that big, spreading tree of Uncle Alec’s is now, and Emily liked to sit among the ferns under the birches and read or sew.  She had a lover.  His name was Malcolm Ward and he was as handsome as a prince.  She loved him with all her heart and he loved her the same; but they had never spoken about it.  They used to meet under the birches and talk about everything except love.  One day he told her he was coming the next day to ask A very important question, and he wanted to find her under the birches when he came.  Emily promised to meet him there.  I am sure she stayed awake that night, thinking about