“‘Give that stone to me,’ said Pan, holding out his hand.

“But Aglaia, though she was frightened, would not give him the stone.

“‘I want it for Glaucon,’ she said.

“‘I want it for one of my wood nymphs,’ said Pan, ’and I must have it.’

“He advanced threateningly, but Aglaia ran as hard as she could up the mountain.  If she could only reach Glaucon he would protect her.  Pan followed her, clattering and bellowing terribly, but in a few minutes she rushed into Glaucon’s arms.

“The dreadful sight of Pan and the still more dreadful noise he made, so frightened the sheep that they fled in all directions.  But Glaucon was not afraid at all, because Pan was the god of shepherds, and was bound to grant any prayer a good shepherd, who always did his duty, might make.  If Glaucon had not been a good shepherd dear knows what would have happened to him and Aglaia.  But he was; and when he begged Pan to go away and not frighten Aglaia any more, Pan had to go, grumbling a good deal—­and Pan’s grumblings had a very ugly sound.  But still he went, and that was the main thing.

“‘Now, dearest, what is all this trouble about?’ asked Glaucon; and Aglaia told him the story.

“‘But where is the beautiful stone?’ he asked, when she had finished.  ‘Didst thou drop it in thy alarm?’

“No, indeed!  Aglaia had done nothing of the sort.  When she began to run, she had popped it into her mouth, and there it was still, quite safe.  Now she poked it out between her red lips, where it glittered in the sunlight.

“‘Take it,’ she whispered.

“The question was—­how was he to take it?  Both of Aglaia’s arms were held fast to her sides by Glaucon’s arms; and if he loosened his clasp ever so little he was afraid she would fall, so weak and trembling was she from her dreadful fright.  Then Glaucon had a brilliant idea.  He would take the beautiful stone from Aglaia’s lips with his own lips.

“He bent over until his lips touched hers—­and then, he forgot all about the beautiful pebble and so did Aglaia.  Kissing was discovered!

“What a yarn!” said Dan, drawing a long breath, when we had come to ourselves and discovered that we were really sitting in a dewy Prince Edward Island orchard instead of watching two lovers on a mountain in Thessaly in the Golden Age.  “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Of course, we know it wasn’t really true,” said Felicity.

“Well, I don’t know,” said the Story Girl thoughtfully.  “I think there are two kinds of true things—­true things that are, and true things that are not, but might be.”

“I don’t believe there’s any but the one kind of trueness,” said Felicity.  “And anyway, this story couldn’t be true.  You know there was no such thing as a god Pan.”

“How do you know what there might have been in the Golden Age?” asked the Story Girl.