By the time they were gathered in the parlor windows, their momentary quiet was over, and they were talking as gaily as ever while they gazed up the street, watching for the first signs of the procession. But the funeral services were long, and the girls' patience was rapidly becoming exhausted when Florence had suggested Alan's telling them a story, to while away the time of waiting. The girls arranged themselves before the two long front windows, to look and listen at the same time, Katharine, Florence, and Jean at one, Molly and Jessie at the other, with Alan and Polly on the floor at their feet, and the lad began his tale. "Once upon a time, about sixty-seven years and nine months ago, there was a young man in England that was rich and handsome and brave and good, and his name was--Oh, give us a name for him, Poll." "Mortimer Vincent Augustin Thome," responded Polly promptly. "I think that's a lovely name." "Too long," objected Alan. "Something shorter, not but one." "Malcolm, then; will that suit?" asked Florence, from the other side of the room. "Yes, that's good. Well, his name was Malcolm, and he fell in love with a girl named--" "Gertrude," suggested Jean, without waiting to be asked. "No, Margaret," said Polly. "That's ever so much better." "All right, call her Margaret," said Alan; "but if you girls don't keep still, I never can tell you any story. Malcolm loved Margaret and wanted her to be his bride, but she was kept a captive in a tower, by a wicked uncle who had gone on a crusade to the Holy Land." "But they didn't go on crusades sixty-seven years ago," said Jean, whose strong point was history. "Will you keep still, Jean?" said Polly. "This isn't a true story, and he has as good a right to poetical license as you had in the play."