That gentleman, in silence, took out his wallet, extracted
a note therefrom, and handed it gravely to the Story
Girl.
“There are five dollars for you,” he said,
“and your story was well worth it. You
are a wonder. Some day you will make the
world realize it. I’ve been about a bit,
and heard some good things, but I’ve never enjoyed
anything more than that threadbare old story I heard
in my cradle. And now, will you do me a favour?”
“Of course,” said the delighted Story
Girl.
“Recite the multiplication table for me,”
said Mr. Campbell.
We stared. Well might Mr. Campbell be called
eccentric. What on earth did he want the multiplication
table recited for? Even the Story Girl was surprised.
But she began promptly, with twice one and went through
it to twelve times twelve. She repeated it simply,
but her voice changed from one tone to another as each
in succession grew tired. We had never dreamed
that there was so much in the multiplication table.
As she announced it, the fact that three times three
was nine was exquisitely ridiculous, five times six
almost brought tears to our eyes, eight times seven
was the most tragic and frightful thing ever heard
of, and twelve times twelve rang like a trumpet call
to victory.
Mr. Campbell nodded his satisfaction.
“I thought you could do it,” he said.
“The other day I found this statement in a
book. ’Her voice would have made the multiplication
table charming!’ I thought of it when I heard
yours. I didn’t believe it before, but
I do now.”
Then he let us go.
“You see,” said the Story Girl as we went
home, “you need never be afraid of people.”
“But we are not all Story Girls,” said
Cecily.
That night we heard Felicity talking to Cecily in
their room.
“Mr. Campbell never noticed one of us except
the Story Girl,” she said, “but if I had
put on my best dress as she did maybe she wouldn’t
have taken all the attention.”
“Could you ever do what Betty Sherman did, do
you suppose?” asked Cecily absently.
“No; but I believe the Story Girl could,”
answered Felicity rather snappishly.
The Story Girl went to Charlottetown for a week in
June to visit Aunt Louisa. Life seemed very
colourless without her, and even Felicity admitted
that it was lonesome. But three days after her
departure Felix told us something on the way home from
school which lent some spice to existence immediately.
“What do you think?” he said in a very
solemn, yet excited, tone. “Jerry Cowan
told me at recess this afternoon that he had seen
A picture of god—that he
has it at home in an old, red-covered history of the
world, and has looked at it often.”
To think that Jerry Cowan should have seen such a
picture often! We were as deeply impressed as
Felix had meant us to be.
