"No, but I shall some day, if I keep on believing in her," said
the Story Girl confidently.

"I wouldn't like to see her. I'd be afraid," said Cecily with a
shiver.

"There wouldn't be anything to be afraid of," said the Story Girl
reassuringly. "It's not as if it were a strange ghost. It's our
own family ghost, so of course it wouldn't hurt us."

We were not so sure of this. Ghosts were unchancy folk, even if
they were our family ghosts. The Story Girl had made the tale
very real to us. We were glad we had not heard it in the
evening. How could we ever have got back to the house through
the shadows and swaying branches of a darkening orchard? As it
was, we were almost afraid to look up it, lest we should see the
waiting, blue-clad Emily under Uncle Alec's tree. But all we saw
was Felicity, tearing over the green sward, her curls streaming
behind her in a golden cloud.

"Felicity's afraid she's missed something," remarked the Story
Girl in a tone of quiet amusement. "Is your breakfast ready,
Felicity, or have I time to tell the boys the Story of the Poet
Who Was Kissed?"

"Breakfast is ready, but we can't have it till father is through
attending to the sick cow, so you will likely have time,"
answered Felicity.