lover. His name was Malcolm Ward and he was as handsome as a
prince. She loved him with all her heart and he loved her the
same; but they had never spoken about it. They used to meet
under the birches and talk about everything except love. One day
he told her he was coming the next day to ask A VERY IMPORTANT
QUESTION, and he wanted to find her under the birches when he
came. Emily promised to meet him there. I am sure she stayed
awake that night, thinking about it, and wondering what the
important question would be, although she knew perfectly well. I
would have. And the next day she dressed herself beautifully in
her best pale blue muslin and sleeked her curls and went smiling
to the birches. And while she was waiting there, thinking such
lovely thoughts, a neighbour's boy came running up--a boy who
didn't know about her romance--and cried out that Malcolm Ward
had been killed by his gun going off accidentally. Emily just
put her hands to her heart--so--and fell, all white and broken
among the ferns. And when she came back to life she never cried
or lamented. She was CHANGED. She was never, never like herself
again; and she was never contented unless she was dressed in her
blue muslin and waiting under the birches. She got paler and
paler every day, but the pink butterfly grew redder, until it
looked just like a stain of blood on her white cheek. When the
winter came she died. But next spring"--the Story Girl dropped
her voice to a whisper that was as audible and thrilling as her
louder tones--"people began to tell that Emily was sometimes seen
waiting under the birches still. Nobody knew just who told it
first. But more than one person saw her. Grandfather saw her
when he was a little boy. And my mother saw her once."

"Did YOU ever see her?" asked Felix skeptically.