Along the edges of that
winding path grew banks of velvet green moss, starred with
clusters of pigeon berries. Pigeon berries are not to be eaten.
They are woolly, tasteless things. But they are to be looked at
in their glowing scarlet. They are the jewels with which the
forest of cone-bearers loves to deck its brown breast. Cecily
gathered some and pinned them on hers, but they did not become
her. I thought how witching the Story Girl's brown curls would
have looked twined with those brilliant clusters. Perhaps Cecily
was thinking of it, too, for she presently said,
"Bev, don't you think the Story Girl is changing somehow?"
"There are times--just times--when she seems to belong more among
the grown-ups than among us," I said, reluctantly, "especially
when she puts on her bridesmaid dress."
"Well, she's the oldest of us, and when you come to think of it,
she's fifteen,--that's almost grown-up," sighed Cecily. Then she
added, with sudden vehemence, "I hate the thought of any of us
growing up. Felicity says she just longs to be grown-up, but I
don't, not a bit. I wish I could just stay a little girl for
ever--and have you and Felix and all the others for playmates
right along. I don't know how it is--but whenever I think of
being grown-up I seem to feel tired.
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