He worked at it in the evenings in the granary loft, and the rest of us forebore to question him concerning it, because he evidently disliked talking about his literary efforts. But this evening I had to ask him if he would soon have it ready, as I wanted to make up the paper.
“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.”