Do n't you want to hear it ? '' Of course we did . We all sat down at the roots of the firs . Felix , having finally squared matters with his nose , turned around and listened also . He would not look at Cecily , but every one else had forgiven her . The Story Girl leaned that brown head of hers against the fir trunk behind her , and looked up at the apple-green sky through the dark boughs above us . She wore , I remember , a dress of warm crimson , and she had wound around her head a string of waxberries , that looked like a fillet of pearls . Her cheeks were still flushed with the excitement of the evening . In the dim light she was beautiful , with a wild , mystic loveliness , a compelling charm that would not be denied . `` Many , many moons ago , an Indian tribe lived on the banks of a river in Nova Scotia . One of the young braves was named Accadee . He was the tallest and bravest and handsomest young man in the tribe -- '' `` Why is it they 're always so handsome in stories ? '' asked Dan . `` Why are there never no stories about ugly people ? '' `` Perhaps ugly people never have stories happen to them , '' suggested Felicity . `` I think they 're just as interesting as the handsome people , '' retorted Dan . `` Well , maybe they are in real life , '' said Cecily , `` but in stories it 's just as easy to make them handsome as not . I like them best that way . I just love to read a story where the heroine is beautiful as a dream . '' `` Pretty people are always conceited , '' said Felix , who was getting tired of holding his tongue .
`` The heroes in stories are always nice , '' said Felicity , XXXXX apparent irrelevance .
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