He read them thrillingly, while the bells on the Tree Lovers tinkled in the summer wind and the coolness of the evening shadows crept across the valley.
“Say, ain’t them in’resting lies?” said Mary admiringly when Walter had closed the book.
“They aren’t lies,” said Di indignantly.
“You don’t mean they’re true?” asked Mary incredulously.
“No—not exactly. They’re like those ghost-stories of yours. They weren’t true—but you didn’t expect us to believe them, so they weren’t lies.”