be the Story Girl; and in that gay and graceful gesture was an
allurement not to be gainsaid or denied.

We looked at her as we drew near with such interest that we
forgot to feel shy. No, she was not pretty. She was tall for
her fourteen years, slim and straight; around her long, white
face--rather too long and too white--fell sleek, dark-brown
curls, tied above either ear with rosettes of scarlet ribbon.
Her large, curving mouth was as red as a poppy, and she had
brilliant, almond-shaped, hazel eyes; but we did not think her
pretty.

Then she spoke; she said,

"Good morning."

Never had we heard a voice like hers. Never, in all my life
since, have I heard such a voice. I cannot describe it. I might
say it was clear; I might say it was sweet; I might say it was
vibrant and far-reaching and bell-like; all this would be true,
but it would give you no real idea of the peculiar quality which
made the Story Girl's voice what it was.

If voices had colour, hers would have been like a rainbow. It
made words LIVE. Whatever she said became a breathing entity,
not a mere verbal statement or utterance. Felix and I were too
young to understand or analyze the impression it made upon us;
but we instantly felt at her greeting that it WAS a good
morning--a surpassingly good morning -- the very best morning
that had ever happened in this most excellent of worlds.