feel that I haven't succeeded very well in keeping my
resolutions."

"I've kept mine," said Felicity complacently.
"It's easy to keep just one," retorted Cecily, rather resentfully.

"It's not so easy to think beautiful thoughts," answered Felicity.
"It's the easiest thing in the world," said the Story Girl,

tiptoeing to the edge of the pool to peep at her own arch
reflection, as some nymph left over from the golden age might do.

"Beautiful thoughts just crowd into your mind at times."
"Oh, yes, AT TIMES. But that's different from thinking one

REGULARLY at a given hour. And mother is always calling up the
stairs for me to hurry up and get dressed, and it's VERY hard

sometimes."
"That's so," conceded the Story Girl. "There ARE times when I

can't think anything but gray thoughts. Then, other days, I think
pink and blue and gold and purple and rainbow thoughts all the

time."
"The idea! As if thoughts were coloured," giggled Felicity.

"Oh, they are!" cried the Story Girl. "Why, I can always SEE the
colour of any thought I think. Can't you?"

"I never heard of such a thing," declared Felicity, "and I don't
believe it. I believe you are just making that up."

"Indeed I'm not. Why, I always supposedeveryone thought in
colours. It must be very tiresome if you don't."

"When you think of me what colour is it?" asked Peter curiously.
"Yellow," answered the Story Girl promptly. "And Cecily is a

sweet pink, like those mayflowers, and Sara Ray is very pale blue,
and Dan is red and Felix is yellow, like Peter, and Bev is

striped."
"What colour am I?" asked Felicity, amid the laughter at my

expense.
"You're--you're like a rainbow," answered the Story Girl rather

reluctantly. She had to be honest, but she would rather not have
complimented Felicity. "And you needn't laugh at Bev. His

stripes are beautiful. It isn't HE that is striped. It's just
the THOUGHT of him. Peg Bowen is a queer sort of yellowish green

and the Awkward Man is lilac. Aunt Olivia is pansy-purple mixed
with gold, and Uncle Roger is navy blue."

"I never heard such nonsense," declared Felicity. The rest of us
were rather inclined to agree with her for once. We thought the

Story Girl was making fun of us. But I believe she really had a
strange gift of thinking in colours. In later years, when we were

grown up, she told me of it again. She said that everything had
colour in her thought; the months of the year ran through all the

tints of the spectrum, the days of the week were arrayed as
Solomon in his glory, morning was golden, noon orange, evening

crystal blue, and night violet. Every idea came to her mind robed
in its own especial hue. Perhaps that was why her voice and words

had such a charm, conveying to the listeners' perception such fine
shadings of meaning and tint and music.

"Well, let's go and have something to eat," suggested Dan. "What
colour is eating, Sara?"

"Golden brown, just the colour of a molasses cooky," laughed the
Story Girl.

We sat on the ferny bank of the pool and ate of the generous
basket Aunt Janet had provided, with appetites sharpened by the

keen spring air and our wilderness rovings. Felicity had made
some very nice sandwiches of ham which we all appreciated except

Dan, who declared he didn't like things minced up and dug out of
the basket a chunk of boiled pork which he proceeded to saw up

with a jack-knife and devour with gusto.
"I told ma to put this in for me. There's some CHEW to it," he

said.
"You are not a bit refined," commented Felicity.

"Not a morsel, my love," grinned Dan.
"You make me think of a story I heard Uncle Roger telling about

Cousin Annetta King," said the Story Girl. "Great-uncle Jeremiah
King used to live where Uncle Roger lives now, when Grandfather

King was alive and Uncle Roger was a boy. In those days it was
thought rather coarse for a young lady to have too hearty an

appetite, and she was more admired if she was delicate about what
she ate. Cousin Annetta set out to be very refined indeed. She

pretended to have no appetite at all. One afternoon she was
invited to tea at Grandfather King's when they had some special

company--people from Charlottetown. Cousin Annetta said she could
hardly eat anything. 'You know, Uncle Abraham,' she said, in a

very affected, fine-young-lady voice, 'I really hardly eat enough
to keep a bird alive. Mother says she wonders how I continue to

exist.' And she picked and pecked until Grandfather King declared
he would like to throw something at her. After tea Cousin Annetta

went home, and just about dark Grandfather King went over to Uncle
Jeremiah's on an errand. As he passed the open, lighted pantry

window he happened to glance in, and what do you think he saw?
Delicate Cousin Annetta standing at the dresser, with a big loaf

of bread beside her and a big platterful of cold, boiled pork in
front of her; and Annetta was hacking off great chunks, like Dan

there, and gobbling them down as if she was starving. Grandfather
King couldn't resist the temptation. He stepped up to the window

and said, 'I'm glad your appetite has come back to you, Annetta.
Your mother needn't worry about your continuing to exist as long

as you can tuck away fat, salt pork in that fashion.'
"Cousin Annetta never forgave him, but she never pretended to be

delicate again."
"The Jews don't believe in eating pork," said Peter.

"I'm glad I'm not a Jew and I guess Cousin Annetta was too," said
Dan.

"I like bacon, but I can never look at a pig without wondering if
they were ever intended to be eaten," remarked Cecily naively.

When we finished our lunch the barrens were already wrapping
themselves in a dim, blue dusk and falling upon rest in dell and

dingle. But out in the open there was still much light of a fine
emerald-golden sort and the robins whistled us home in it. "Horns

of Elfland" never sounded more sweetly around hoary castle and
ruined fane than those vesper calls of the robins from the

twilightspruce woods and across green pastures lying under the
pale radiance of a young moon.

When we reached home we found that Miss Reade had been up to the
hill farm on an errand and was just leaving. The Story Girl went

for a walk with her and came back with an important expression on
her face.

"You look as if you had a story to tell," said Felix.
"One is growing. It isn't a whole story yet," answered the Story

Girl mysteriously.
"What is it?" asked Cecily.

"I can't tell you till it's fully grown," said the Story Girl.
"But I'll tell you a pretty little story the Awkward Man told us--

told me--tonight. He was walking in his garden as we went by,
looking at his tulip beds. His tulips are up ever so much higher

than ours, and I asked him how he managed to coax them along so
early. And he said HE didn't do it--it was all the work of the

pixies who lived in the woods across the brook. There were more
pixy babies than usual this spring, and the mothers were in a

hurry for the cradles. The tulips are the pixy babies' cradles,
it seems. The mother pixies come out of the woods at twilight and