The Story Girl looked rather puzzled. It was so hard to imagine
Sara Ray as having any kind of future. Yet Sara was plainly
anxious to have her fortune told and must be gratified.

"You'll be married," said the Story Girl recklessly, "and you'll
live to be nearly a hundred years old, and go to dozens of
funerals and have a great many sick spells. You will learn not to
cry after you are seventy; but your husband will never go to
church."

"I'm glad you warned me," said Sara Ray solemnly, "because now I
know I'll make him promise before I marry him that he will go."

"He won't keep the promise," said the Story Girl, shaking her
head. "But it is getting cold and Cecily is coughing. Let us go
in."

"You haven't told my fortune," protested Cecily disappointedly.

The Story Girl looked very tenderly at Cecily--at the smooth
little brown head, at the soft, shining eyes, at the cheeks that
were often over-rosy after slight exertion, at the little
sunburned hands that were always busy doing faithful work or quiet
kindnesses. A very strange look came over the Story Girl's face;
her eyes grew sad and far-reaching, as if of a verity they pierced
beyond the mists of hidden years.

"I couldn't tell any fortune half good enough for you, dearest,"
she said, slipping her arm round Cecily. "You deserve everything