The Story Girl ran over to the buggy and climbed in . Uncle Blair followed her . Her arms were full of Mrs. Dale 's chrysanthemums , held close up to her face , and her beautiful eyes shone softly at us over them . No good-byes were said , as she wished . We all smiled bravely and waved our hands as they drove out of the lane and down the moist red road into the shadows of the fir wood in the valley . But we still stood there , for we knew we should see the Story Girl once more . Beyond the fir wood was an open curve in the road and she had promised to wave a last farewell as they passed around it . We watched the curve in silence , standing in a sorrowful little group in the sunshine of the autumn morning . The delight of the world had been ours on the golden road . It had enticed us with daisies and rewarded us with roses . Blossom and lyric had waited on our wishes . Thoughts , careless and sweet , had visited us . Laughter had been our comrade and fearless Hope our guide . But now the shadow of change was over it . `` There she is , '' cried Felicity . The Story Girl stood up and waved her chrysanthemums at us . We waved wildly back until the buggy had driven around the curve . Then we went slowly and silently back to the house . At fifteen , I became a resident in a country village , more than a hundred miles from home . The morning after my arrival -- a September morning , but warm and bright as any in July -- I rambled into a wood of oaks , with a few walnut-trees intermixed , forming the closest shade above my head .
The ground was rocky , uneven , overgrown XXXXX bushes and clumps of young saplings , and traversed only by cattle-paths .
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