“Nothing exciting has happened for ever so long,” said the Story Girl discontentedly, one late May evening, as we lingered under the wonderful white bloom of the cherry trees. There was a long row of them in the , with a Lombardy poplar at either end, and a hedge of lilacs behind. When the wind blew over them all the breezes of Ceylon’s were never sweeter.  
It was a time of wonder and , of the soft touch of silver rain on greening fields, of the incredible of young leaves, of blossom in field and garden and wood. The whole world bloomed in a flush and of loveliness, instinct with all the evasive, charm of spring and girlhood and young morning. We felt and enjoyed it all without understanding or it. It was enough to be glad and young with spring on the golden road.
 
“I don’t like excitement very much,” said Cecily. “It makes one so tired. I’m sure it was exciting enough when Paddy was missing, but we didn’t find that very pleasant.”
 
“No, but it was interesting,” returned the Story Girl thoughtfully. “After all, I believe I’d rather be than dull.”
 
“I wouldn’t then,” said Felicity decidedly. “And you need never be dull when you have work to do. ‘Satan finds some still for idle hands to do!’”
 
“Well, mischief is interesting,” laughed the Story Girl. “And I thought you didn’t think it lady-like to speak of that person, Felicity?”
 
“It’s all right if you call him by his polite name,” said Felicity stiffly.
 
“Why does the Lombardy poplar hold its branches straight up in the air like that, when all the other poplars hold theirs out or hang them down?” interjected Peter, who had been gazing intently at the slender showing darkly against the fine blue eastern sky.
 
“Because it grows that way,” said Felicity.
 
“Oh I know a story about that,” cried the Story Girl. “Once upon a time an old man found the pot of gold at the rainbow’s end. There IS a pot there, it is said, but it is very hard to find because you can never get to the rainbow’s end before it vanishes from your sight. But this old man found it, just at sunset, when , the of the rainbow gold, happened to be absent. As he was a long way from home, and the pot was very big and heavy, he to hide it until morning and then get one of his sons to go with him and help him carry it. So he hid it under the of the sleeping poplar tree.
 
“When Iris came back she missed the pot of gold and of course she was in a sad way about it. She sent Mercury, the messenger of the gods, to look for it, for she didn’t dare leave the rainbow again, lest somebody should run off with that too. Mercury asked all the trees if they had seen the pot of gold, and the elm, oak and pine to the poplar and said,
 
“‘The poplar can tell you where it is.’
 
“‘How can I tell you where it is?’ cried the poplar, and she held up all her branches in surprise, just as we hold up our hands—and down tumbled the pot of gold. The poplar was amazed and indignant, for she was a very honest tree. She stretched her boughs high above her head and declared that she would always hold them like that, so that nobody could hide stolen gold under them again. And she taught all the little poplars she knew to stand the same way, and that is why Lombardy poplars always do. But the aspen poplar leaves are always shaking, even on the very calmest day. And do you know why?”
 
And then she told us the old legend that the cross on which the of the world suffered was made of aspen poplar wood and so never again could its poor, shaken, shivering leaves know rest or peace. There was an aspen in the orchard, the very embodiment of youth and spring in its and symmetry. Its little leaves were hanging tremulously, not yet so blown as to hide its development of and , making poetry against the spiritual of a spring sunset.
 
“It does look sad,” said Peter, “but it is a pretty tree, and it wasn’t its fault.”
 
“There’s a heavy dew and it’s time we stopped talking nonsense and went in,” decreed Felicity. “If we don’t we’ll all have a cold, and then we’ll be miserable enough, but it won’t be very exciting.”
 
“All the same, I wish something exciting would happen,” finished the Story Girl, as we walked up through the orchard, peopled with its nun-like shadows.
 
“There’s a new moon tonight, so may be you’ll get your wish,” said Peter. “My Aunt Jane didn’t believe there was anything in the moon business, but you never can tell.”
 
The Story Girl did get her wish. Something happened the very next day. She joined us in the afternoon with a quite indescribable expression on her face, compounded of triumph, , and regret. Her eyes betrayed that she had been crying, but in them shone a chastened . Whatever the Story Girl mourned over it was evident she was not without hope.
 
“I have some news to tell you,” she said importantly. “Can you guess what it is?”
 
We couldn’t and wouldn&rsqu............