and her father unkindly, in the story. "But it all
came right in the end," she told herself, "when they met in the Forest."
It was a cheering thought, and she smiled over it.

"What are you smiling at?" Belle asked, sitting up.

Rosalind's eyes had a far-away look as she replied, "I was thinking about
the Forest."

"What forest?" Belle began to ask, when a curly dog rushed down upon them,
and on the bridge above their heads they saw the magician waving his
hand.

"Well, Curly Q. How are you?" cried Rosalind.

"There's Morgan," said Belle; "you know him, don't you?"

"Of course I do. I took tea with him last week," Rosalind answered,
laughing.

"And, Belle, she calls him the 'magician,'" Katherine said.

"Do you? Why?"

"Because he is one. Didn't you know it?" Rosalind danced up the slope,
with Curly Q. after her.

"Rosalind says you are a magician. Are you?" Belle spelled rapidly when
they had joined Morgan on the bridge.

The old man's eyes twinkled as he replied, "That's a secret; you mustn't
tell anybody."

"Ask him if he knows about the Forest," said Rosalind.

Belle asked the question.

Morgan laughed. "'Where the birds sing--'" he quoted.

"Tell me about it, please," begged Belle. "Does Katherine know?"

Rosalind promised she would sometime; and as Katherine did not know
either, and as it was growing late, Belle agreed to wait.

It was rather an odd and pleasant sight, if any one had stopped to think
of it--the old man with his bright, wistful eyes, his tool box on his
shoulder, and his three companions, walking home together. Demure
Katherine, dainty Rosalind, saucy Belle,--all as merry as merry could
be,--and Curly Q. running in and out among them in an ecstasy of delight,
and at imminent danger of upsetting somebody.

"Well, Pigeon, how do you like your new friend?" asked the colonel, as his
daughter took her seat beside him on the door-step.

Belle gazed thoughtfully across the lawn. "I like her," she answered, "but
she is funny. I suppose it is because she hasn't gone much to school. She
isn't like Charlotte, or Katherine, or me. She isn't prim, and yet--it is
queer, father, but she makes me feel as I do when I am with Miss
Celia--like behaving."

The colonel laughed his hearty ha, ha! "I hope you'll cultivate her
society," he said, adding, "she is like Pat, as high-toned a fellow as
ever lived. He was something of a dreamer, too, and this child has the
eyes of a poet."

"They are