“N—­no!” said Leslie, “and I’ll tell you all something.  A lady that mama knows heard some of Gwen’s stories, and she told Mrs. Harcourt what perfectly awful things Gwen was telling, and Mrs. Harcourt said that she was very glad, and thankful that Gwen had such great imagination, and said she wouldn’t, for the world do anything to check it, because it’s a sure sign she’ll be something fine some day.

“Mrs. Harcourt said it was just wonderful what a strong imagination Gwen had, and she said she thought she would be either an author, or a play writer, or something great.”

“And papa, when he heard that, said he’d want to be careful lest she grow up to be an awful liar!” said Harry.

“Oh, hush!” said Leslie, “papa said falsifier or some name like that.”

“Well, that’s the same thing,” said Harry.

The little friends talked of Gwen, and the stories that she told.

The boys thought them ridiculous, and laughed at the idea that she expected her playmates to believe them, but neither Polly, Lena, nor Leslie could see it that way.

“I wouldn’t mind the stories,” Polly said, “because anyone can make up stories just for fun, but I do hate to have her say they’re true.”

“And she sticks to it,” said Harry.

“That’s it,” said Lena, “she says they’re true, and she dared us to come down to her house, and see the picture!”

Gwen was safe in daring them, for not one of the little friends liked her well enough to go to her home, none save Inez, and Inez had not heard the story about the picture.

One sunny morning Polly ran along the avenue to overtake Lena Lindsey.

“Lena!  Lena!” she cried, “wait for me!  I’ve a letter from Rose,” she said, as she walked along with Lena.

“Which way are you going?” Lena asked, “I want to hear what she says.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere ’til I saw you,” said Polly.

“Then come along the path through the grove,” said Lena, “and we’ll stop on the bridge, and enjoy the letter there.”

They ran along the path together, the sunbeams making Jack-o-lanterns at their feet.  Light branches swayed in the wind, and through the dancing leaves the sunlight sifted, making Lena’s hair a brighter brown, and Polly’s flaxen ringlets like pale gold.

They reached the little bridge, and paused to watch the clear, rippling brook, as it ran beneath it, and out through the tiny grove.

Humming a melody all its own, it made its zigzag way between birches, and alders, maples, and elderblow, carrying on its shining surface stray leaves, and water spiders that struggled to see which first should reach the sunlit meadow land beyond.

“Now, read the letter,” said Lena, “and does she say when she’s coming here?”

“Oh, you hark, while I read,” said Polly, taking from its envelope, the letter that she had, already, read three times.