We gazed up at her in silence for a few moments. When we had heard the news of Paddy’s recovery we had been noisy and jubilant; but we were very quiet now. We had been too near something dark and terrible and menacing; and though it was thus suddenly removed the chill and shadow of it were about us still. Presently the Story Girl, who had been standing up, leaning against a tall fir, slipped down to the ground in a huddled fashion and broke into a very passion of weeping. I had never heard any one cry so, with dreadful, rending sobs. I was used to hearing girls cry. It was as much Sara Ray’s normal state as any other, and even Felicity and Cecily availed themselves occasionally of the privilege of sex. But I had never heard any girl cry like this. It gave me the same unpleasant sensation which I had felt one time when I had seen my father cry. “Oh, don’t, Sara, don’t,” I said gently, patting her convulsed shoulder. “You ARE a queer girl,” said Felicity--more tolerantly than usual however--“you never cried a speck when you thought Peter was going to die--and now when he is going to get better you cry like that.” “Sara, child, come with me,” said Aunt Olivia, bending over her. The Story Girl got up and went away, with Aunt Olivia’s arms around her. The sound of her crying died away under the firs, and with it seemed to go the dread and grief that had been our portion for hours. In the reaction our spirits rose with a bound. “Oh, ain’t it great that Peter’s going to be all right?” said Dan, springing up. “I never was so glad of anything in my whole life,” declared Felicity in shameless rapture. “Can’t we send word somehow to Sara Ray to-night?” asked Cecily, the ever-thoughtful. “She’s feeling so bad--and she’ll have to feel that way till to-morrow if we can’t.” “Let’s all go down to the Ray gate and holler to Judy Pineau till she comes out,” suggested Felix. Accordingly, we went and “hollered,” with a right good will. We were much taken aback to find that Mrs. Ray came to the gate instead of Judy, and rather sourly demanded what we were yelling about. When she heard our news, however, she had the decency to say she was glad, and to promise she would convey the good tidings to Sara--“who is already in bed, where all children of her age should be,” added Mrs. Ray severely. WE had no intention of going to bed for a good two hours yet. Instead, after devoutly thanking goodness that our grown-ups, in spite of some imperfections, were not of the Mrs. Ray type, we betook ourselves to the granary, lighted a huge lantern which Dan had made out of a turnip, and proceeded to devour all the apples we might have eaten through the day but had not. We were a blithe little crew, sitting there in the light of our goblin lantern. We had in very truth been given beauty for ashes and the oil of joy for mourning. Life was as a red rose once more.