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"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 leftToronto for Prince Edward Island, had not then heard her say it, and, indeed, were butbarely aware of the existence of such a person as the Story Girl. We did not know her at allunder that name. We knew only that a cousin, Sara Stanley, whose mother, our AuntFelicity, was dead, was living down on the Island with Uncle Roger and Aunt Olivia King, ona farm adjoining the old King homestead in Carlisle. We supposed we should get acquaintedwith 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. Wewere more interested in Felicity and Cecily and Dan, who lived on the homestead andwould therefore be our roofmates for a season.But the spirit of the Story Girl's yet unuttered remark was thrilling in our hearts thatmorning, 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 theunknown 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 thehaunts of his boyhood. He had talked so much to us about it, and described its scenes sooften and so minutely, that he had inspired us with some of his own deep-seated affectionfor it-an affection that had never waned in all his years of exile. We had a vague feelingthat 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 withthe Chinese roof over it, stand on "the Pulpit Stone," and eat apples from our "birthdaytrees.