It was half-past five when we boys got up the next morning. We were joined on the stairs by Felicity, yawning and .  
"Oh, dear me, I overslept myself. Uncle Roger wanted breakfast at six. Well, I suppose the fire is on anyhow, for the Story Girl is up. I guess she got up early to knead the bread. She couldn't sleep all night for worrying over it."
 
The fire was on, and a flushed and Story Girl was taking a loaf of bread from the oven.
 
"Just look," she said proudly. "I have every bit of the bread baked. I got up at three, and it was lovely and light, so I just gave it a right good kneading and popped it into the oven. And it's all done and out of the way. But the loaves don't seem quite as big as they should be," she added doubtfully.
 
"Sara Stanley!" Felicity flew across the kitchen. "Do you mean that you put the bread right into the oven after you kneaded it without leaving it to rise a second time?"
 
The Story Girl turned quite pale.
 
"Yes, I did," she . "Oh, Felicity, wasn't it right?"
 
"You've ruined the bread," said Felicity flatly. "It's as heavy as a stone. I declare, Sara Stanley, I'd rather have a little common sense than be a great story ."
 
Bitter indeed was the poor Story Girl's .
 
"Don't tell Uncle Roger," she .
 
"Oh, I won't tell him," promised Felicity . "It's lucky there's enough old bread to do to-day. This will go to the hens. But it's an awful waste of good flour."
 
The Story Girl crept out with Felix and me to the morning , while Dan and Peter went to do the barn work.
 
"It isn't ANY use for me to try to learn to cook," she said.
 
"Never mind," I said consolingly. "You can tell splendid stories."
 
"But what good would that do a hungry boy?" the Story
Girl.
"Boys ain't ALWAYS hungry," said Felix gravely. "There's times when they ain't."
 
"I don't believe it," said the Story Girl .
 
"Besides," added Felix in the tone of one who says while there is life there is yet hope, "you may learn to cook yet if you keep on trying."
 
"But Aunt Olivia won't let me waste the stuff. My only hope was to learn this week. But I suppose Felicity is so disgusted with me now that she won't give me any more lessons."
 
"I don't care," said Felix. "I like you better than Felicity, even if you can't cook. There's lots of folks can make bread. But there isn't many who can tell a story like you."
 
"But it's better to be useful than just interesting," sighed the
Story Girl bitterly.
And Felicity, who was useful, would, in her secret soul, have given anything to be interesting. Which is the way of human nature.
 
Company on us that afternoon. First came Aunt Janet's sister, Mrs. Patterson, with a daughter of sixteen years and a son of two. They were followed by a buggy-load of Markdale people; and finally, Mrs. Elder Frewen and her sister from Vancouver, with two small daughters of the latter, arrived.
 
"It never rains but it pours," said Uncle Roger, as he went out to take their horse. But Felicity's foot was on her native heath. She had been baking all the afternoon, and, with a pantry well stocked with biscuits, cookies, cakes, and pies, she cared not if all Carlisle came to tea. Cecily set the table, and the Story Girl waited on it and washed all the dishes afterwards. But all the blushing honours fell to Felicity, who received so many compliments that her airs were quite for the rest of the week. She presided at the head of the table with as much grace and dignity as if she had been five times twelve years old, and seemed to know by instinct just who took sugar and who took it not. She was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and was so pretty that I could hardly eat for looking at her—which is the highest compliment in a boy's power to pay.
 
The Story Girl, on the contrary, was under eclipse. She was pale and from her disturbed night and early rising; and no opportunity offered to tell a melting tale. Nobody took any notice of her. It was Felicity's day.
 
After tea Mrs. Frewen and her sister wished to visit their father's grave in the Carlisle churchyar............