TRUE story, about an old lady I saw in town at Aunt Louisa's.
Such a dear old lady, with lovely silvery curls."

After the rain the air seemed dripping with odours in the warm
west wind--the tang of fir balsam, the spice of mint, the wild
woodsiness of ferns, the aroma of grasses steeping in the
sunshine,--and with it all a breath of wild sweetness from far
hill pastures.

Scattered through the grass in Uncle Stephen's Walk, were
blossoming pale, aerial flowers which had no name that we could
ever discover. Nobody seemed to know anything about them. They
had been there when Great-grandfather King bought the place. I
have never seen them elsewhere, or found them described in any
floral catalogue. We called them the White Ladies. The Story
Girl gave them the name. She said they looked like the souls of
good women who had had to suffer much and had been very patient.
They were wonderfully dainty, with a strange, faint, aromatic
perfume which was only to be detected at a little distance and
vanished if you bent over them. They faded soon after they were
plucked; and, although strangers, greatly admiring them, often
carried away roots and seeds, they could never be coaxed to grow
elsewhere.

"My story is about Mrs. Dunbar and the Captain of the FANNY,"
said the Story Girl, settling herself comfortably on a bough,
with her brown head against a gnarled trunk. "It's sad and
beautiful--and true. I do love to tell stories that I know
really happened. Mrs. Dunbar lives next door to Aunt Louisa in
town. She is so sweet. You wouldn't think to look at her that