“I’d dearly love to see all the things that are in it,” said the Story Girl.
“Pa says it must never be opened without Cousin Rachel’s permission,” said Cecily.
Felix and I looked at the chest reverently. It had taken on a new significance in our eyes, and seemed like a tomb wherein lay buried some dead romance of the vanished years.
“What happened to Will Montague?” I asked.
“Nothing!” said the Story Girl viciously. “He just went on living and flourishing. He patched up matters with his creditors after awhile, and came back to the Island; and in the end he married a real nice girl, with money, and was very happy. Did you ever HEAR of anything so unjust?”
“Beverley King,” suddenly cried Felicity, who had been peering into a pot, “YOU’VE GONE AND PUT THE TURNIPS ON TO BOIL WHOLE JUST LIKE POTATOES!”
“Wasn’t that right?” I cried, in an agony of shame.
“Right!” but Felicity had already whisked the turnips out, and was slicing them, while all the others were laughing at me. I had added a tradition on my own account to the family archives.
Uncle Roger roared when he heard it; and he roared again at night over Peter’s account of Felix attempting to milk a cow. Felix had previously acquired the knack of extracting milk from the udder. But he had never before tried to “milk a whole cow.” He did not get on well; the cow tramped on his foot, and finally upset the bucket.
“What are you to do when a cow won’t stand straight?” spluttered Felix angrily.