"Yes, it was that memorable day."
"I hated you then—oh, so much!" cried Winifred; "and I thought I should always go on hating you, till we went into the church and Father Owen began to play the organ."
"Music has charms," I quoted, "to soothe—well, I won't say the savage breast, but the angry feelings of a certain little girl. I am very glad, though, that it had that result; for I should not have liked you to go on hating me. That would never have done; and I'm afraid in that case we should have had to give up our trip to America."
She had a mischievous look about the eyes, which made me say:
"Perhaps you think that wouldn't have been so great a misfortune, after all, my Wayward Winifred!"
She laughed merrily, and replied:
"Don't think me ungrateful. I'm glad in some ways I came. 'Tis a wonderful country this America; and I have seen such beautiful, strange things."
"Not the golden streets," I observed; "nor the trees with gold leaves nor the birds with jewelled wings."
"No," she agreed; "I haven't seen anything like that, and I know those stories weren't true."
She sighed, as if for the dream that had vanished, and added: