The Story Girl slipped her arm through Felicity’s.

“Never mind,” she said soothingly.  “I’ll tell you another story—­such a beautiful story that you’ll forget all about the devil.”

She told us one of Hans Andersen’s most exquisite tales; and the magic of her voice charmed away all our fear, so that when we reached the bracken hollow, a lake of shadow surrounded by the silver shore of moonlit fields, we all went through it without a thought of His Satanic Majesty at all.  And beyond us, on the hill, the homelight was glowing from the farmhouse window like a beacon of old loves.

CHAPTER XXXII.  THE OPENING OF THE BLUE CHEST

November wakened from her dream of May in a bad temper.  The day after the picnic a cold autumn rain set in, and we got up to find our world a drenched, wind-writhen place, with sodden fields and dour skies.  The rain was weeping on the roof as if it were shedding the tears of old sorrows; the willow by the gate tossed its gaunt branches wildly, as if it were some passionate, spectral thing, wringing its fleshless hands in agony; the orchard was haggard and uncomely; nothing seemed the same except the staunch, trusty, old spruces.

It was Friday, but we were not to begin going to school again until Monday, so we spent the day in the granary, sorting apples and hearing tales.  In the evening the rain ceased, the wind came around to the northwest, freezing suddenly, and a chilly yellow sunset beyond the dark hills seemed to herald a brighter morrow.

Felicity and the Story Girl and I walked down to the post-office for the mail, along a road where fallen leaves went eddying fitfully up and down before us in weird, uncanny dances of their own.  The evening was full of eerie sounds—­the creaking of fir boughs, the whistle of the wind in the tree-tops, the vibrations of strips of dried bark on the rail fences.  But we carried summer and sunshine in our hearts, and the bleak unloveliness of the outer world only intensified our inner radiance.

Felicity wore her new velvet hood, with a coquettish little collar of white fur about her neck.  Her golden curls framed her lovely face, and the wind stung the pink of her cheeks to crimson.  On my left hand walked the Story Girl, her red cap on her jaunty brown head.  She scattered her words along the path like the pearls and diamonds of the old fairy tale.  I remember that I strutted along quite insufferably, for we met several of the Carlisle boys and I felt that I was an exceptionally lucky fellow to have such beauty on one side and such charm on the other.

There was one of father’s thin letters for Felix, a fat, foreign letter for the Story Girl, addressed in her father’s minute handwriting, a drop letter for Cecily from some school friend, with “In Haste” written across the corner, and a letter for Aunt Janet, postmarked Montreal.