Every family festival was commemorated in like fashion , and every beloved visitor who spent a night under their roof was expected to plant a tree in the orchard . So it came to pass that every tree in it was a fair green monument to some love or delight of the vanished years . And each grandchild had its tree , there , also , set out by grandfather when the tidings of its birth reached him ; not always an apple tree -- perhaps it was a plum , or cherry or pear . But it was always known by the name of the person for whom , or by whom , it was planted ; and Felix and I knew as much about `` Aunt Felicity 's pears , '' and `` Aunt Julia 's cherries , '' and `` Uncle Alec 's apples , '' and the `` Rev. Mr. Scott 's plums , '' as if we had been born and bred among them . And now we had come to the orchard ; it was before us ; we had only to open that little whitewashed gate in the hedge and we might find ourselves in its storied domain . But before we reached the gate we glanced to our left , along the grassy , spruce-bordered lane which led over to Uncle Roger 's ; and at the entrance of that lane we saw a girl standing , with a gray cat at her feet . She lifted her hand and beckoned blithely to us ; and , the orchard forgotten , we followed her summons . For we knew that this must be the Story Girl ; and in that gay and graceful gesture was an allurement not to be gainsaid or denied . We looked at her as we drew near with such interest that we forgot to feel shy . No , she was not pretty . She was tall for her fourteen years , slim and straight ; around her long , white face -- rather too long and too white -- fell sleek , dark-brown curls , tied above either ear with rosettes of scarlet ribbon . Her large , curving mouth was as red as a poppy , and she had brilliant , almond-shaped , hazel eyes ; but we did not think her pretty . Then she spoke ; she said , `` Good morning . '' Never had we heard a voice like hers . Never , in all my life since , have I heard such a voice . I can not describe it . I might say it was clear ; I might say it was sweet ; I might say it was vibrant and far-reaching and bell-like ; all this would be true , but it would give you no real idea of the peculiar quality which made the Story Girl 's voice what it was . If voices had colour , hers would have been like a rainbow . It made words LIVE . Whatever she said became a breathing entity , not a mere verbal statement or utterance .
Felix and I were too young to understand or analyze the impression it made upon us ; but we instantly felt at her greeting that it WAS a good morning -- a surpassingly good morning -- the very best morning that had ever happened in this most excellent XXXXX worlds .
For So about along at by like of that under