"If I did, it would be to find out what you really did think about them," Elaine replied. "Most people would say nice things, anyway, but I believe you’d be honest, Peggy." She looked at her friend rather appealingly. "I don’t want to waste my time on what isn’t going to amount to anything." Peggy felt a marked decline of enthusiasm. "Of course I’m not any critic," she said uncomfortably. "I can tell you what I think, but that won’t be worth much." "It’s what I want, anyway." Elaine jerked a bulky manuscript from its sheath and settled herself in a rocking-chair. "The name of this," she announced in a defiant voice, "is the ’Maid of the Haunted Well.’ It’s a story for children, you see." "O, yes." Peggy leaned forward in an attitude of close attention, while Elaine began to read with a rapidity which gave small heed to the marks of punctuation. "Long ago, on the edge of a vast and mighty forest, lived a young girl, known far and near as the Maid of the Haunted Well. Fair she was, with lustrous, golden hair, that fell in a profusion of silky ringlets. Deep blue were her eyes. Far and wide had the fame of her loveliness spread, and many came to see for themselves if she was as ravishingly beautiful as she was reported to be." "How wretchedly you are reading, Elaine," remonstrated her mother. "It is impossible to get any idea of the real excellence of the story when you hurry that way." With an evident effort Elaine slackened her speed and continued. "The Maid of the Haunted Well had hosts of lovers, but to one and all she gave one answer ’Wouldst wed me? Then drink with me one cup of water from the Haunted Well. Whosoever tastes this water shall never--’" The monotonous voice ceased suddenly, and the sheets comprising the "Maid of the Haunted Well" strewed the carpet like gigantic snow-flakes. "Elaine!" cried Mrs. Marshall. "I can’t go on with it. It chokes me. Peggy, don’t you think it’s silly?" Peggy’s struggle between her candor and her sympathy resulted in something of compromise. "I didn’t know just what you were trying to bring out about the haunted well," she replied. "But it sounded rather ingenious, and interesting. At the same time--" "Well?" It was Mrs. Marshall who insisted on the conclusion of the sentence. Elaine was staring gloomily at the carpet. "O, I only wondered if nice breezy stories about jolly boys and girls wouldn’t take a little better, but, of course, I don’t know anything about it." "They are not all children’s stories," said Mrs. Marshall, as Elaine preserved an uncompromising silence. "Read her the ’Daughter’s Defiance,’ Elaine."