Accordingly we went a-maying, following the of dancing winds to a certain sloping hill lying under the spirit-like blue of spring skies, feathered over with lisping young pines and firs, which cupped little hollows and corners where the sunshine got in and never got out again, but stayed there and grew , dear things to bloom long before they would dream of waking up elsewhere.  
‘Twas there we found our mayflowers, after faithful seeking. Mayflowers, you must know, never themselves; they must be sought as becomes them, and then they will yield up their treasures to the seeker—clusters of star-white and dawn-pink that have in them the very soul of all the springs that ever were, re-incarnated in something it seems gross to call perfume, so and spiritual is it.
 
We wandered over the hill, calling to each other with laughter and jest, getting parted and lost in that little pathless , and finding each other unexpectedly in nooks and dips and sunny silences, where the wind purred and gentled and went softly. When the sun began to hang low, sending great fan-like streamers of radiance up to the zenith, we foregathered in a tiny, valley, full of young green fern, lying in the shadow of a wooded hill. In it was a shallow pool—a green sheet of water on whose banks nymphs might dance as as ever they did on Argive hill or in Cretan dale. There we sat and stripped the faded leaves and stems from our spoil, making up the blossoms into to fill our baskets with sweetness. The Story Girl twisted a spray of divinest pink in her brown curls, and told us an old legend of a beautiful Indian who died of a broken heart when the first snows of winter were falling, because she believed her long-absent lover was false. But he came back in the spring time from his long ; and when he heard that she was dead he sought her grave to mourn her, and lo, under the dead leaves of the old year he found sweet sprays of a blossom never seen before, and knew that it was a message of love and remembrance from his dark-eyed sweet-heart.
 
“Except in stories Indian girls are called squaws,” remarked practical Dan, tying his mayflowers together in one huge, solid, cabbage-like bunch. Not for Dan the bother of filling his basket with the loose sprays, with feathery elephant’s-ears and trails of creeping spruce, as the rest of us, following the Story Girl’s example, did. Nor would he admit that ours looked any better than his.
 
“I like things of one kind together. I don’t like them mixed,” he said.
 
“You have no taste,” said Felicity.
 
“Except in my mouth, best beloved,” responded Dan.
 
“You do think you are so smart,” retorted Felicity, flushing with anger.
 
“Don’t quarrel this lovely day,” Cecily.
 
“Nobody’s quarrelling, Sis. I ain’t a bit mad. It’s Felicity. What on earth is that at the bottom of your basket, Cecily?”
 
“It’s a History of the Reformation in France,” confessed poor Cecily, “by a man named D-a-u-b-i-g-n-y. I can’t pronounce it. I heard Mr. Marwood saying it was a book everyone ought to read, so I began it last Sunday. I brought it along today to read when I got tired picking flowers. I’d ever so much rather have brought Ester Reid. There’s so much in the history I can’t understand, and it is so dreadful to read of people being burned to death. But I felt I OUGHT to read it.”
 
“Do you really think your mind has improved any?” asked Sara Ray seriously, wreathing the handle of her basket with creeping spruce.
 
“No, I’m afraid it hasn’t one bit,” answered Cecily sadly. “I feel that I haven’t succeeded very well in keeping my resolutions.”
 
“I’ve kept mine,” said Felicity .
 
“It’s easy to keep just one,” retorted Cecily, rather resentfully.
 
“It’s not so easy to think beautiful thoughts,” answered Felicity.
 
“It’s the easiest thing in the world,” said the Story Girl, tiptoeing to the edge of the pool to peep at her own arch reflection, as some nymph left over from the golden age might do. “Beautiful thoughts just crowd into your mind at times.”
 
“Oh, yes, AT TIMES. But that’s different from thinking one REGULARLY at a given hour. And mother is always calling up the stairs for me to hurry up and get dressed, and it’s VERY hard sometimes.”
 
“That’s so,” conceded the Story Girl. “There ARE times when I can’t think anything but gray thoughts. Then, other days, I think pink and blue and gold and purple and rainbow thoughts all the time.”
 
“The idea! As if thoughts were coloured,” Felicity.
 
“Oh, they are!” cried the Story Girl. “Why, I can always SEE the colour of any thought I think. Can’t you?”
 
“I never heard of such a thing,” declared Felicity, “and I don’t believe it. I believe you are just making that up.”
 
“Indeed I’m not. Why, I always supposed everyone thought in colours. It must be very if you don’t.”
 
“When you think of me what colour is it?” asked Peter .
 
“Yellow,” answered the Story Girl . “And Cecily is a sweet pink, like those mayflowers, and Sara Ray is very pale blue, and Dan is red and Felix is yellow, like Peter, and Bev is striped.”
 
“What colour am I?” asked Felicity, amid the laughter at my expense.
 
“You’re—you’re like a rainbow,” answered the Story Girl rather reluctantly. She had to be honest, but she would rather not have complimented Felicity. “And you needn’t laugh at Bev. His stripes are beautiful. It isn’t HE that is striped. ............