“Here’s a letter for you from father,” said Felix, tossing it to me as he came through the gate. We had been picking apples all day, but were taking a mid-afternoon rest around the well, with a cup of its sparkling cold water to refresh us.  
I opened the letter rather indifferently, for father, with all his excellent and lovable traits, was but a poor correspondent; his letters were usually very brief and very unimportant.
 
This letter was brief enough, but it was freighted with a message of weighty import. I sat gazing stupidly at the sheet after I had read it until Felix exclaimed,
 
“Bev, what’s the matter with you? What’s in that letter?”
 
“Father is coming home,” I said . “He is to leave South America in a fortnight and will be here in November to take us back to Toronto.”
 
Everybody . Sara Ray, of course, began to cry, which me .
 
“Well,” said Felix, when he got his second wind, “I’ll be awful glad to see father again, but I tell you I don’t like the thought of leaving here.”
 
I felt exactly the same but, in view of Sara Ray’s tears, admit it I would not; so I sat in grum silence while the other tongues wagged.
 
“If I were not going away myself I’d feel just terrible,” said the Story Girl. “Even as it is I’m real sorry. I’d like to be able to think of you as all here together when I’m gone, having good times and writing me about them.”
 
“It’ll be dull when you fellows go,” muttered Dan.
 
“I’m sure I don’t know what we’re ever going to do here this winter,” said Felicity, with the calmness of despair.
 
“Thank goodness there are no more fathers to come back,” breathed Cecily with a vicious earnestness that made us all laugh, even in the midst of our dismay.
 
We worked very half-heartedly the rest of the day, and it was not until we assembled in the orchard in the evening that our spirits recovered something like their wonted level. It was clear and slightly frosty; the sun had declined behind a birch on a distant hill and it seemed a tree with a blazing heart of fire. The great golden at the lane gate was laughter-shaken in the wind of evening. Even amid all the changes of our shifting world we could not be hopelessly low-spirited—except Sara Ray, who was often so, and Peter, who was rarely so. But Peter had been sorely in spirit for several days. The time was approaching for the October issue of Our Magazine and he had no genuine fiction ready for it. He had taken so much to heart Felicity’s that his stories were all true that he had to have a really-truly false one in the next number. But the difficulty was to get anyone to write it. He had asked the Story Girl to do it, but she refused; then he appealed to me and I shirked. Finally Peter determined to write a story himself.
 
“It oughtn’t to be any harder than writing a poem and I managed that,” he said dolefully.
 
He worked at it in the evenings in the granary , and the rest of us forebore to question him concerning it, because he evidently disliked talking about his literary efforts. But this evening I had to ask him if he would soon have it ready, as I wanted to make up the paper.
 
“It’s done,” said Peter, with an air of gloomy triumph. “It don’t amount to much, but anyhow I made it all out of my own head. Not one word of it was ever printed or told before, and nobody can say there was.”
 
“Then I guess we have all the stuff in and I’ll have Our Magazine ready to read by tomorrow night,” I said.
 
“I s’pose it will be the last one we’ll have,” sighed Cecily. “We can’t carry it on after you all go, and it has been such fun.”
 
“Bev will be a real newspaper editor some day,” declared the Story Girl, on whom the spirit of prophecy suddenly that night.
 
She was swinging on the of an apple tree, with a shawl wrapped about her head, and her eyes were bright with roguish fire.
 
“How do you know he will?” asked Felicity.
 
“Oh, I can tell futures,” answered the Story Girl mysteriously. “I know what’s going to happen to all of you. Shall I tell you?”
 
“Do, just for the fun of it,” I said. “Then some day we’ll know just how near you came to guessing right. Go on. What else about me?”
 
“You’ll write books, too, and travel all over the world,” continued the Story Girl. “Felix will be fat to the end of his life, and he will be a grandfather before he is fifty, and he will wear a long black beard.”
 
“I won’t,” cried Felix disgustedly. “I hate whisker............