"She says she's going to study for the stage," said Felicity.
"Uncle Roger thinks it is all right, and says she'll be very
famous some day. But mother thinks it's dreadful, and so do I."

"Aunt Julia is a concert singer," I said.

"Oh, that's very different. But I hope poor Sara will get on all
right," sighed Felicity. "You never know what may happen to a
person in those foreign countries. And everybody says Paris is
such a wicked place. But we must hope for the best," she
concluded in a resigned tone.

That evening the Story Girl and I drove the cows to pasture after
milking, and when we came home we sought out Uncle Blair in the
orchard. He was sauntering up and down Uncle Stephen's Walk, his
hands clasped behind him and his beautiful, youthful face uplifted
to the western sky where waves of night were breaking on a dim
primrose shore of sunset.

"See that star over there in the south-west?" he said, as we
joined him. "The one just above that pine? An evening star
shining over a dark pine tree is the whitest thing in the
universe--because it is LIVING whiteness--whiteness possessing a
soul. How full this old orchard is of twilight! Do you know, I
have been trysting here with ghosts."

"The Family Ghost?" I asked, very stupidly.

"No, not the Family Ghost. I never saw beautiful, broken-hearted