“Old Peg Bowen. She’s very queer. She lives there with a lot of pet animals in winter, and in summer she roams over the country and begs her meals. They say she is crazy. People have always tried to frighten us children into good behaviour by telling us that Peg Bowen would catch us if we didn’t behave. I’m not so frightened of her as I once was, but I don’t think I would like to be caught by her. Sara Ray is dreadfully scared of her. Peter Craig says she is a witch and that he bets she’s at the bottom of it when the butter won’t come. But I don’t believe THAT. Witches are so scarce nowadays. There may be some somewhere in the world, but it’s not likely there are any here right in Prince Edward Island. They used to be very plenty long ago. I know some splendid witch stories I’ll tell you some day. They’ll just make your blood freeze in your veins.” We hadn’t a doubt of it. If anybody could freeze the blood in our veins this girl with the wonderful voice could. But it was a May morning, and our young blood was running blithely in our veins. We suggested a visit to the orchard would be more agreeable. “All right. I know stories about it, too,” she said, as we walked across the yard, followed by Paddy of the waving tail. “Oh, aren’t you glad it is spring? The beauty of winter is that it makes you appreciate spring.” The latch of the gate clicked under the Story Girl’s hand, and the next moment we were in the King orchard. CHAPTER III. LEGENDS OF THE OLD ORCHARD Outside of the orchard the grass was only beginning to grow green; but here, sheltered by the spruce hedges from uncertain winds and sloping to southern suns, it was already like a wonderful velvet carpet; the leaves on the trees were beginning to come out in woolly, grayish clusters; and there were purple-pencilled white violets at the base of the Pulpit Stone. “It’s all just as father described it,” said Felix with a blissful sigh, “and there’s the well with the Chinese roof.” We hurried over to it, treading on the spears of mint that were beginning to shoot up about it. It was a very deep well, and the curb was of rough, undressed stones. Over it, the queer, pagoda-like roof, built by Uncle Stephen on his return from a voyage to China, was covered with yet leafless vines. “It’s so pretty, when the vines leaf out and hang down in long festoons,” said the Story Girl. “The birds build their nests in it. A pair of wild canaries come here every summer. And ferns grow out between the stones of the well as far down as you can see. The water is lovely. Uncle Edward preached his finest sermon about the Bethlehem well where David’s soldiers went to get him water, and he illustrated it by describing his old well at the homestead--this very well--and how in foreign lands he had longed for its sparkling water. So you see it is quite famous.”