“What are you dreaming of, Anne?”
The two girls were loitering one evening in a fairy hollow of the brook. Ferns nodded in it, and little grasses were green, and wild pears hung finely-scented, white curtains around it.
Anne roused herself from her reverie with a happy sigh.
“I was thinking out my story, Diana.”
“Oh, have you really begun it?” cried Diana, all alight with eager interest in a moment.
“Yes, I have only a few pages written, but I have it all pretty well thought out. I’ve had such a time to get a suitable plot. None of the plots that suggested themselves suited a girl named Averil.”
“Couldn’t you have changed her name?”
“No, the thing was impossible. I tried to, but I couldn’t do it, any more than I could change yours. Averil was so real to me that no matter what other name I tried to give her I just thought of her as Averil behind it all. But finally I got a plot that matched her. Then came the excitement of choosing names for all my characters. You have no idea how fascinating that is. I’ve lain awake for hours think-
