the Rev. Mr. Scott's plums, which always reached their prime of juicy, golden-green flesh and bloomy blue skin in September. The Rev. Mr. Scott was dead and gone, but those plums certainly kept his memory green, as his forgotten sermons could never have done.
"Oh," said Felicity in a shocked tone, when Uncle Roger had passed by, "Uncle Roger swore."
"Oh, no, he didn't," said the Story Girl quickly. "'Deviltry' isn't swearing at all. It only means extra bad mischief."
"Well, it's not a very nice word, anyhow," said Felicity.
"No, it isn't," agreed the Story Girl with a regretful sigh. "It's very expressive, but it isn't nice. That is the way with so many words. They're expressive, but they're not nice, and so a girl can't use them."
The Story Girl sighed again. She loved expressive words, and treasured them as some girls might have treasured jewels. To her, they were as lustrous pearls, threaded on the crimson cord of a vivid fancy. When she met with a new one she uttered it over and over to herself in solitude, weighing it, caressing it, infusing it with the radiance of her voice, making it her own in all its possibilities for ever.
"Well, anyhow, it isn't a suitable word in this case," insisted Felicity. "We are not up to any dev— any extra bad mischief. Writing down one's dreams isn't mischief at all."
Certainly it wasn't. Surely not even the straitest sect of the grown-ups could call it so. If writing down
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