We took a short cut to Golden Milestone, over a long, green, dewy land full of placid meadows, where sunshine had fallen asleep.  At first all was not harmonious.  Felicity was in an ill humour; she had wanted to wear her second best dress, but Aunt Janet had decreed that her school clothes were good enough to go “traipsing about in the dust.”  Then the Story Girl arrived, arrayed not in any second best but in her very best dress and hat, which her father had sent her from Paris—­a dress of soft, crimson silk, and a white leghorn hat encircled by flame-red poppies.  Neither Felicity nor Cecily could have worn it; but it became the Story Girl perfectly.  In it she was a thing of fire and laughter and glow, as if the singular charm of her temperament were visible and tangible in its vivid colouring and silken texture.

“I shouldn’t think you’d put on your best clothes to go begging for the library in,” said Felicity cuttingly.

“Aunt Olivia says that when you are going to have an important interview with a man you ought to look your very best,” said the Story Girl, giving her skirt a lustrous swirl and enjoying the effect.

“Aunt Olivia spoils you,” said Felicity.

“She doesn’t either, Felicity King!  Aunt Olivia is just sweet.  She kisses me good-night every night, and your mother never kisses you.”

“My mother doesn’t make kisses so common,” retorted Felicity.  “But she gives us pie for dinner every day.”

“So does Aunt Olivia.”

“Yes, but look at the difference in the size of the pieces!  And Aunt Olivia only gives you skim milk.  My mother gives us cream.”

“Aunt Olivia’s skim milk is as good as your mother’s cream,” cried the Story Girl hotly.

“Oh, girls, don’t fight,” said Cecily, the peacemaker.  “It’s such a nice day, and we’ll have a nice time if you don’t spoil it by fighting.”

“We’re not fighting,” said Felicity.  “And I like Aunt Olivia.  But my mother is just as good as Aunt Olivia, there now!”

“Of course she is.  Aunt Janet is splendid,” agreed the Story Girl.

They smiled at each other amicably.  Felicity and the Story Girl were really quite fond of each other, under the queer surface friction that commonly resulted from their intercourse.

“You said once you knew a story about the Awkward Man,” said Felix.  “You might tell it to us.”

“All right,” agreed the Story Girl.  “The only trouble is, I don’t know the whole story.  But I’ll tell you all I do know.  I call it ‘The Mystery of the Golden Milestone.’”

“Oh, I don’t believe that story is true,” said Felicity.  “I believe Mrs. Griggs was just romancing.  She does romance, mother says.”