`` Just look how the Story Girl has got herself up ! '' said Felicity . `` Why , she 's no more than decent ! '' The Story Girl was barefooted and barearmed , having rolled the sleeves of her pink gingham up to her shoulders . Around her waist was twisted a girdle of the blood-red roses that bloomed in Aunt Olivia 's garden ; on her sleek curls she wore a chaplet of them ; and her hands were full of them . She paused under the outmost tree , in a golden-green gloom , and laughed at us over a big branch . Her wild , subtle , nameless charm clothed her as with a garment . We always remembered the picture she made there ; and in later days when we read Tennyson 's poems at a college desk , we knew exactly how an oread , peering through the green leaves on some haunted knoll of many fountained Ida , must look . `` Felicity , '' said the Story Girl reproachfully , `` what have you been doing to Peter ? He 's up there sulking in the granary , and he wo n't come down , and he says it 's your fault . You must have hurt his feelings dreadfully . '' `` I do n't know about his feelings , '' said Felicity , with an angry toss of her shining head , `` but I guess I made his ears tingle all right . I boxed them both good and hard . '' `` Oh , Felicity ! What for ? '' `` Well , he tried to kiss me , that 's what for ! '' said Felicity , turning very red . `` As if I would let a hired boy kiss me ! I guess Master Peter wo n't try anything like that again in a hurry . '' The Story Girl came out of her shadows and sat down beside us on the grass .
`` Well , XXXXX that case , '' she said gravely , `` I think you did right to slap his ears -- not because he is a hired boy , but because it would be impertinent in ANY boy .
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