“I am sitting on a tragedy,” said the Story Girl suddenly.

Felix and I stared.  We were not quite sure what a “tragedy” was, but we did not think it was an old blue wooden chest, such as the Story Girl was undoubtedly sitting on, if eyesight counted for anything.

The old chest filled up the corner between the table and the wall.  Neither Felix nor I had ever thought about it particularly.  It was very large and heavy, and Felicity generally said hard things of it when she swept the kitchen.

“This old blue chest holds a tragedy,” explained the Story Girl.  “I know a story about it.”

“Cousin Rachel Ward’s wedding things are all in that old chest,” said Felicity.

Who was Cousin Rachel Ward?  And why were her wedding things shut up in an old blue chest in Uncle Alec’s kitchen?  We demanded the tale instantly.  The Story Girl told it to us as she peeled her potatoes.  Perhaps the potatoes suffered—­Felicity declared the eyes were not properly done at all—­but the story did not.

“It is a sad story,” said the Story Girl, “and it happened fifty years ago, when Grandfather and Grandmother King were quite young.  Grandmother’s cousin Rachel Ward came to spend a winter with them.  She belonged to Montreal and she was an orphan too, just like the Family Ghost.  I have never heard what she looked like, but she must have been beautiful, of course.”

“Mother says she was awful sentimental and romantic,” interjected Felicity.

“Well, anyway, she met Will Montague that winter.  He was handsome—­everybody says so”—­

“And an awful flirt,” said Felicity.

“Felicity, I wish you wouldn’t interrupt.  It spoils the effect.  What would you feel like if I went and kept stirring things that didn’t belong to it into that pudding?  I feel just the same way.  Well, Will Montague fell in love with Rachel Ward, and she with him, and it was all arranged that they were to be married from here in the spring.  Poor Rachel was so happy that winter; she made all her wedding things with her own hands.  Girls did, then, you know, for there was no such thing as a sewing-machine.  Well, at last in April the wedding day came, and all the guests were here, and Rachel was dressed in her wedding robes, waiting for her bridegroom.  And”—­the Story Girl laid down her knife and potato and clasped her wet hands—­“Will Montague never came!”

We felt as much of a shock as if we had been one of the expectant guests ourselves.

“What happened to him?  Was he killed too?” asked Felix.

The Story Girl sighed and resumed her work.

“No, indeed.  I wish he had been.  That would have been suitable and romantic.  No, it was just something horrid.  He had to run away for debt!  Fancy!  He acted mean right through, Aunt Janet says.  He never sent even a word to Rachel, and she never heard from him again.”