One Saturday in March we walked over to Baywater, for a long-talked-of visit to Cousin Mattie Dilke. By the road, Baywater was six miles away, but there was a short cut across hills and fields and woods which was three. We did not look forward to our visit with any particular delight, for there was nobody at Cousin Mattie’s except grown-ups who had been grown up so long that it was rather hard for them to remember they had ever been children. But, as Felicity told us, it was necessary to visit Cousin Mattie at least once a year, or else she would be “huffed,” so we concluded we might as well go and have it over.  
“Anyhow, we’ll get a splendiferous dinner,” said Dan. “Cousin Mattie’s a great cook and there’s nothing stingy about her.”
 
“You are always thinking of your stomach,” said Felicity pleasantly.
 
“Well, you know I couldn’t get along very well without it, darling,” responded Dan who, since New Year’s, had adopted a new method of with Felicity—whether by way of keeping his resolution or because he had discovered that it annoyed Felicity far more than angry retorts, deponent sayeth not. He invariably met her criticisms with a good-natured grin and a flippant remark with some tender tagged on to it. Poor Felicity used to get hopelessly furious over it.
 
Uncle Alec was about our going that day. He looked abroad on the general of gray earth and gray air and gray sky, and said a storm was . But Cousin Mattie had been sent word that we were coming, and she did not like to be disappointed, so he let us go, warning us to stay with Cousin Mattie all night if the storm came on while we were there.
 
We enjoyed our walk—even Felix enjoyed it, although he had been appointed to write up the visit for Our Magazine and was rather weighed down by the responsibility of it. What mattered it though the world were gray and wintry? We walked the golden road and carried spring time in our hearts, and we our way with laughter and jest, and the tales the Story Girl told us—myths and legends of elder time.
 
The walking was good, for there had lately been a and everything was frozen. We went over fields, crossed by spidery trails of gray fences, where the grasses stuck forlornly up through the snow; we lingered for a time in a group of hill pines, great, tree-creatures, friends of evening stars; and finally struck into the belt of fir and which intervened between Carlisle and Baywater. It was in this locality that Bowen lived, and our way lay near her house though not directly in sight of it. We hoped we would not meet her, for since the affair of the bewitchment of Paddy we did not know quite what to think of Peg; the boldest of us held his breath as we passed her haunts, and drew it again with a sigh of relief when they were safely left behind.
 
The woods were full of the brooding stillness that often precedes a storm, and the wind crept along their white, cone-sprinkled floors with a low, cry. Around us were of snow, picked out in pearl and silver, long avenues of untrodden marble whence sprang the cathedral columns of the firs. We were all sorry when we were through the woods and found ourselves looking down into the

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