“I think she stopped worrying long ago,” said Emily dreamily. “That’s what people mean when they say she isn’t right. People who don’t worry a little never are right—like Cousin Jimmy. But that was a great story. I’m going to write it for my first essay—and later on I'll see about having it printed. I’m sure it would make a splendid sketch for some magazine, if I can only catch the savour and vivacity she put into it. I think I'll jot down some of her expressions right away in my Jimmy-book before I forget them.”
“Oh, drat your Jimmy-book!”’ said Ilse. “Let’s get down—and eat breakfast if we have to—and get away.”
But Emily, revelling again in her story-teller’s paradise, had temporarily forgotten everything else.
“Where is my Jimmy-book?”’ she said impatiently. “It isn’t in my bag—I know it was here last night. Surely I didn’t leave it on that gate-post!”
“Isn’t that it over on the table?” asked Ilse.
Emily gazed blankly at it.
“It can’t be—it is—how did it get there? I know I didn’t take it out of the bag last night.”
“You must have,” said Ilse indifferently.
Emily walked over to the table with a puzzled expression. The Jimmy-book was lying open on it, with her pencil beside it. Something on the page caught her eye suddenly. She bent over it.
“Why don’t you hurry and finish your hair ?” demanded Ilse a few minutes later. “I’m ready now—for pity’s sake, tear yourself from that blessed Jimmy-book for long enough to get dressed!”
Emily turned around, holding the Jimmy-book in her hands. She was very pale and her eyes were dark with fear and mystery.
“Ilse, look at this,” she said in a trembling voice.
Ilse went over and looked at the page of the Jimmy-book which Emily held out to her. On it was a pencil sketch, exceedingly well done, of the little house on the river shore to which Emily had been so attracted on the
