But they are to be looked at in their glowing scarlet.

They are the jewels with which the forest of cone-bearers loves to deck its brown breast.

Cecily gathered some and pinned them on hers, but they did not become her.
I thought how witching the Story Girl's brown curls would have looked twined with those brilliant clusters.

Perhaps Cecily was thinking of it, too, for she presently said, "Bev, don't you think the Story Girl is changing somehow ?" "There are times--just times--when she seems to belong more among the grown-ups than among us," I said, reluctantly, "especially when she puts on her bridesmaid dress." "Well, she's the oldest of us, and when you come to think of it, she's fifteen,--that's almost grown-up," sighed Cecily.

Then she added, with sudden vehemence, "I hate the thought of any of us growing up.