The primness of her was indescribable, and was not at all ruffled by Dan's hoot of derision.

As for me, I was consumed by a secret and burning desire to ask the Story Girl if I might see HER home; but I could not screw my courage to the sticking point.

How I envied Peter his easy, insouciant manner! I could not emulate him, so Dan and Felix and Cecily and the Story Girl and I all walked hand in hand, huddling a little closer together as we went through James Frewen's woods--for there are strange harps in a fir grove, and who shall say what fingers sweep them?
Mighty and sonorous was the music above our heads as the winds of the night stirred the great boughs tossing athwart the starlit sky.

Perhaps it was that aeolian harmony which recalled to the Story Girl a legend of elder days.
"I read such a pretty story in one of Aunt Olivia's books last night," she said.

"It was called 'The Christmas Harp.' Would you like to hear it?
It seems to me it would just suit this part of the road." "There isn't anything about--about ghosts in it, is there ?" said Cecily timidly.
"Oh, no, I wouldn't tell a ghost story here for anything.