"It's done," said Peter, with an air of gloomy triumph. "It don't
amount to much, but anyhow I made it all out of my own head. Not
one word of it was ever printed or told before, and nobody can say
there was."
"Then I guess we have all the stuff in and I'll have Our Magazine
ready to read by tomorrow night," I said.
"I s'pose it will be the last one we'll have," sighed Cecily. "We
can't carry it on after you all go, and it has been such fun."
"Bev will be a real newspaper editor some day," declared the Story
Girl, on whom the spirit of prophecy suddenly descended that
night.
She was swinging on the bough of an apple tree, with a crimson
shawl wrapped about her head, and her eyes were bright with
roguish fire.
"How do you know he will?" asked Felicity.
"Oh, I can tell futures," answered the Story Girl mysteriously.
"I know what's going to happen to all of you. Shall I tell you?"
"Do, just for the fun of it," I said. "Then some day we'll know
just how near you came to guessing right. Go on. What else about me?"
"You'll write books, too, and travel all over the world,"
continued the Story Girl. "Felix will be fat to the end of his
life, and he will be a grandfather before he is fifty, and he will
wear a long black beard.
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