Just think , my own father ! '' The Story Girl slipped her arm through Felicity 's . `` Never mind , '' she said soothingly . `` I 'll tell you another story -- such a beautiful story that you 'll forget all about the devil . '' She told us one of Hans Andersen 's most exquisite tales ; and the magic of her voice charmed away all our fear , so that when we reached the bracken hollow , a lake of shadow surrounded by the silver shore of moonlit fields , we all went through it without a thought of His Satanic Majesty at all . And beyond us , on the hill , the homelight was glowing from the farmhouse window like a beacon of old loves . CHAPTER XXXII . THE OPENING OF THE BLUE CHEST November wakened from her dream of May in a bad temper . The day after the picnic a cold autumn rain set in , and we got up to find our world a drenched , wind-writhen place , with sodden fields and dour skies . The rain was weeping on the roof as if it were shedding the tears of old sorrows ; the willow by the gate tossed its gaunt branches wildly , as if it were some passionate , spectral thing , wringing its fleshless hands in agony ; the orchard was haggard and uncomely ; nothing seemed the same except the staunch , trusty , old spruces . It was Friday , but we were not to begin going to school again until Monday , so we spent the day in the granary , sorting apples and hearing tales . In the evening the rain ceased , the wind came around to the northwest , freezing suddenly , and a chilly yellow sunset beyond the dark hills seemed to herald a brighter morrow . Felicity and the Story Girl and I walked down to the post-office for the mail , along a road where fallen leaves went eddying fitfully up and down before us in weird , uncanny dances of their own . The evening was full of eerie sounds -- the creaking of fir boughs , the whistle of the wind in the tree-tops , the vibrations of strips of dried bark on the rail fences . But we carried summer and sunshine in our hearts , and the bleak unloveliness of the outer world only intensified our inner radiance . Felicity wore her new velvet hood , with a coquettish little collar of white fur about her neck . Her golden curls framed her lovely face , and the wind stung the pink of her cheeks to crimson . On my left hand walked the Story Girl , her red cap on her jaunty brown head . She scattered her words along the path like the pearls and diamonds of the old fairy tale . I remember that I strutted along quite insufferably , for we met several of the Carlisle boys and I felt that I was an exceptionally lucky fellow to have such beauty on one side and such charm on the other .
There was one of father 's thin letters for Felix , a fat , foreign letter for the Story Girl , addressed XXXXX her father 's minute handwriting , a drop letter for Cecily from some school friend , with `` In Haste '' written across the corner , and a letter for Aunt Janet , postmarked Montreal .
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