Our way lay first over a hill top , gallantly plumed with golden rod , where cloud shadows drifted over us like a gypsying crew . Carlisle , in all its ripely tinted length and breadth , lay below us , basking in the August sunshine , that spilled over the brim of the valley to the far-off Markdale Harbour , cupped in its harvest-golden hills . Then came a little valley overgrown with the pale purple bloom of thistles and elusively haunted with their perfume . You say that thistles have no perfume ? Go you to a brook hollow where they grow some late summer twilight at dewfall ; and on the still air that rises suddenly to meet you will come a waft of faint , aromatic fragrance , wondrously sweet and evasive , the distillation of that despised thistle bloom . Beyond this the path wound through a forest of fir , where a wood wind wove its murmurous spell and a wood brook dimpled pellucidly among the shadows -- the dear , companionable , elfin shadows -- that lurked under the low growing boughs . Along the edges of that winding path grew banks of velvet green moss , starred with clusters of pigeon berries . Pigeon berries are not to be eaten . They are woolly , tasteless things . But they are to be looked at in their glowing scarlet . They are the jewels with which the forest of cone-bearers loves to deck its brown breast . Cecily gathered some and pinned them on hers , but they did not become her . I thought how witching the Story Girl 's brown curls would have looked twined with those brilliant clusters . Perhaps Cecily was thinking of it , too , for she presently said , `` Bev , do n't you think the Story Girl is changing somehow ? '' `` There are times -- just times -- when she seems to belong more among the grown-ups than among us , '' I said , reluctantly , `` especially when she puts on her bridesmaid dress . '' `` Well , she 's the oldest of us , and when you come to think of it , she 's fifteen , -- that 's almost grown-up , '' sighed Cecily . Then she added , with sudden vehemence , `` I hate the thought of any of us growing up . Felicity says she just longs to be grown-up , but I do n't , not a bit . I wish I could just stay a little girl for ever -- and have you and Felix and all the others for playmates right along . I do n't know how it is -- but whenever I think of being grown-up I seem to feel tired . ''
Something about Cecily 's speech -- or the wistful look XXXXX had crept into her sweet brown eyes -- made me feel vaguely uncomfortable ; I was glad that we were at the end of our journey , with Mr. Campbell 's big house before us , and his dog sitting gravely at the veranda steps .
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