stories and of making everything she talked about seem like a story, whether it was one or not.
Anyone who has been at school with a teller of stories knows what the wonder means—how he or she is followed about and besought in a whisper to relate romances; how groups gather round and hang on the outskirts of the favored party in the hope of being allowed to join in and listen. Sara not only could tell stories, but she adored telling them. When she sat or stood in the midst of a circle and began
knees.
“I can speak it because I have heard it all my life,” she answered. “You could speak it if you had always heard it.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” said Ermengarde. “I NEVER could speak it!”
“Why?” inquired Sara, curiously.
Ermengarde shook her head so that the pigtail wobbled.
“You heard me just