seemed as if we were immeasurably older than the rest, and
possessed of dreams and visions and forward-reaching hopes which
they could not possibly share or understand. At times we were
still children, still interested in childish things. But there
came hours when we seemed to our two selves very grown up and old,
and in those hours we talked our dreams and visions and hopes,
vague and splendid, as all such are, over together, and so began
to build up, out of the rainbow fragments of our childhood's
companionship, that rare and beautiful friendship which was to
last all our lives, enriching and enstarring them. For there is
no bond more lasting than that formed by the mutual confidences of
that magic time when youth is slipping from the sheath of
childhood and beginning to wonder what lies for it beyond those
misty hills that bound the golden road.

"Where are you going?" asked the Story Girl.

"To 'the woods that belt the gray hillside'--ay, and overflow
beyond it into many a valley purple-folded in immemorial peace,"
answered Uncle Blair. "I have a fancy for one more ramble in
Prince Edward Island woods before I leave Canada again. But I
would not go alone. So come, you two gay youthful things to whom
all life is yet fair and good, and we will seek the path to
Arcady. There will be many little things along our way to make us
glad. Joyful sounds will 'come ringing down the wind;' a wealth
of gypsy gold will be ours for the gathering; we will learn the
potent, unutterable charm of a dim spruce wood and the grace of
flexile mountain ashes fringing a lonely glen; we will tryst with
the folk of fur and feather; we'll hearken to the music of gray
old firs. Come, and you'll have a ramble and an afternoon that