“I do like a road, because you can be always
wondering what is at the end of it.”
The Story Girl said that once upon a time. Felix
and I, on the May morning when we left Toronto for
Prince Edward Island, had not then heard her say it,
and, indeed, were but barely aware of the existence
of such a person as the Story Girl. We did not
know her at all under that name. We knew only
that a cousin, Sara Stanley, whose mother, our Aunt
Felicity, was dead, was living down on the Island
with Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia King, on a farm adjoining
the old King homestead in Carlisle. We supposed
we should get acquainted with her when we reached there,
and we had an idea, from Aunt Olivia’s letters
to father, that she would be quite a jolly creature.
Further than that we did not think about her.
We were more interested in Felicity and Cecily and
Dan, who lived on the homestead and would therefore
be our roofmates for a season.
But the spirit of the Story Girl’s yet unuttered
remark was thrilling in our hearts that morning, as
the train pulled out of Toronto. We were faring
forth on a long road; and, though we had some idea
what would be at the end of it, there was enough glamour
of the unknown about it to lend a wonderful charm to
our speculations concerning it.
We were delighted at the thought of seeing father’s
old home, and living among the haunts of his boyhood.
He had talked so much to us about it, and described
its scenes so often and so minutely, that he had inspired
us with some of his own deep-seated affection for
it—an affection that had never waned in
all his years of exile. We had a vague feeling
that we, somehow, belonged there, in that cradle of
our family, though we had never seen it. We
had always looked forward eagerly to the promised
day when father would take us “down home,”
to the old house with the spruces behind it and the
famous “King orchard” before it—when
we might ramble in “Uncle Stephen’s Walk,”
drink from the deep well with the Chinese roof over
it, stand on “the Pulpit Stone,” and eat
apples from our “birthday trees.”
The time had come sooner than we had dared to hope;
but father could not take us after all. His
firm asked him to go to Rio de Janeiro that spring
to take charge of their new branch there. It
was too good a chance to lose, for father was a poor
man and it meant promotion and increase of salary;
but it also meant the temporary breaking up of our
home. Our mother had died before either of us
was old enough to remember her; father could not take
us to Rio de Janeiro. In the end he decided to
send us to Uncle Alec and Aunt Janet down on the homestead;
and our housekeeper, who belonged to the Island and
was now returning to it, took charge of us on the
journey. I fear she had an anxious trip of it,
poor woman! She was constantly in a quite justifiable
terror lest we should be lost or killed; she must
have felt great relief when she reached Charlottetown
and handed us over to the keeping of Uncle Alec.
Indeed, she said as much.
