first."

"I don't know." The Story Girl looked dubious. "That sort of
story ought to be told in the twilight among the shadows. Then
it would frighten the souls out of your bodies."

We thought it might be more agreeable not to have the souls
frightened out of our bodies, and we voted for the Family Ghost.

"Ghost stories are more comfortable in daytime," said Felix.

The Story Girl began it and we listened avidly. Cecily, who had
heard it many times before, listened just as eagerly as we did.
She declared to me afterwards that no matter how often the Story
Girl told a story it always seemed as new and exciting as if you
had just heard it for the first time.

"Long, long ago," began the Story Girl, her voice giving us an
impression of remote antiquity, "even before Grandfather King was
born, an orphan cousin of his lived here with his parents. Her
name was Emily King. She was very small and very sweet. She had
soft brown eyes that were too timid to look straight at anybody--
like Cecily's there--and long, sleek, brown curls--like mine; and
she had a tiny birthmark like a pink butterfly on one
cheek--right here.

"Of course, there was no orchard here then. It was just a field;
but there was a clump of white birches in it, right where that
big, spreading tree of Uncle Alec's is now, and Emily liked to
sit among the ferns under the birches and read or sew. She had a