It had played an important part in the games of our uncles and aunts , being fortified castle , Indian ambush , throne , pulpit , or concert platform , as occasion required . Uncle Edward had preached his first sermon at the age of eight from that old gray boulder ; and Aunt Julia , whose voice was to delight thousands , sang her earliest madrigals there . The Story Girl mounted to the ledge , sat on the rim , and looked at us . Pat sat gravely at its base and daintily washed his face with his black paws . `` Now for your stories about the orchard , '' said I. `` There are two important ones , '' said the Story Girl . `` The story of the Poet Who Was Kissed , and the Tale of the Family Ghost . Which one shall I tell ? '' `` Tell them both , '' said Felix greedily , `` but tell the ghost one first . '' `` I do n't know . '' The Story Girl looked dubious . `` That sort of story ought to be told in the twilight among the shadows . Then it would frighten the souls out of your bodies . '' We thought it might be more agreeable not to have the souls frightened out of our bodies , and we voted for the Family Ghost . `` Ghost stories are more comfortable in daytime , '' said Felix . The Story Girl began it and we listened avidly . Cecily , who had heard it many times before , listened just as eagerly as we did . She declared to me afterwards that no matter how often the Story Girl told a story it always seemed as new and exciting as if you had just heard it for the first time . `` Long , long ago , '' began the Story Girl , her voice giving us an impression of remote antiquity , `` even before Grandfather King was born , an orphan cousin of his lived here with his parents . Her name was Emily King . She was very small and very sweet .
She had soft brown eyes that were too timid to look straight XXXXX anybody -- like Cecily 's there -- and long , sleek , brown curls -- like mine ; and she had a tiny birthmark like a pink butterfly on one cheek -- right here .
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