The Story Girl began it glibly. But before she had gone far with it, I, who was sitting beside her, felt an unaccountable repulsion creeping over me. For the first time since I had known her I wanted to draw away from the Story Girl. Looking around on the faces of the group, I saw that they all shared my feeling. Cecily had put her hands over her eyes. Peter was staring at the Story Girl with a fascinated, horror-strickened gaze. Aunt Olivia was pale and troubled. All looked as if they were held prisoners in the bonds of a fearsome spell which they would gladly break but could not. It was not our Story Girl who sat there, telling that weird tale in a sibilant, curdling voice. She had put on a new personality like a garment, and that personality was a venomous, evil, loathly thing. I would rather have died than have touched the slim, brown wrist on which she supported herself. The light in her narrowed orbs was the cold, merciless gleam of the serpent’s eye. I felt frightened of this unholy creature who had suddenly come in our dear Story Girl’s place. When the tale ended there was a brief silence. Then Aunt Janet said severely, but with a sigh of relief, “Little girls shouldn’t tell such horrible stories.” This truly Aunt Janetian remark broke the spell. The grown-ups laughed, rather shakily, and the Story Girl--our own dear Story Girl once more, and no Serpent Woman--said protestingly, “Well, Uncle Roger asked me to tell it. I don’t like telling such stories either. They make me feel dreadful. Do you know, for just a little while, I felt exactly like a snake.” “You looked like one,” said Uncle Roger. “How on earth do you do it?” “I can’t explain how I do it,” said the Story Girl perplexedly. “It just does itself.” Genius can never explain how it does it. It would not be genius if it could. And the Story Girl had genius. As we left the orchard I walked along behind Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia. “That was an uncanny exhibition for a girl of fourteen, you know, Roger,” said Aunt Olivia musingly. “What is in store for that child?” “Fame,” said Uncle Roger. “If she ever has a chance, that is, and I suppose her father will see to that. At least, I hope he will. You and I, Olivia, never had our chance. I hope Sara will have hers.” This was my first inkling of what I was to understand more fully in later years. Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia had both cherished certain dreams and ambitions in youth, but circumstances had denied them their “chance” and those dreams had never been fulfilled.