"I'd be awful sorry myself if Pat died. But if he did, we'd have to give him the right kind of a funeral," he protested. "Why, Paddy just seems like one of the family."
The Story Girl finished her turnover, and stretched herself out on the grasses, pillowing her chin in her hands and looking at the sky. She was bare headed, as usual, and her scarlet ribbon was bound filletwise about her head. She had twined freshly plucked dandelions around it and the effect was that of a crown of brilliant golden stars on her sleek, brown curls.
"Look at that long, thin, lacy cloud up there," she said. "What does it make you think of, girls?"
"A wedding veil," said Cecily.
"That is just what it is—the Wedding Veil of the Proud Princess. I know a story about it. I read it in a book. Once upon a time"—the Story Girl's eyes grew dreamy, and her accents floated away on the summer air like wind-blown rose petals—"there was a princess who was the most beautiful princess in the world, and kings from all lands came to woo her for a bride. But she was as proud as she was beautiful. She laughed all her suitors to scorn. And when her father urged her to choose one of them as her husband she drew herself up haughtily—so—"
The Story Girl sprang to her feet and for a moment we saw the proud princess of the old tale in all her scornful loveliness—
"and she said,
"'I will not wed until a king comes who can con-
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