"Well, Marigold," said Cousin Mira pleasantly one early October morning at breakfast, "What are your plans for the day?"

The Harmony Lesleys would hardly have recognized Leander's daughter; her eyes were so bright and alert, her cheeks so round and rosy, her arms and legs so strong, and a blithe look was on her face, as though even eating porridge for breakfast was a delight. "I hadn't decided yet," she answered with a lilt in her voice. "Mickey had to take the car into Shrewsbury for Aunt Edna, so I'm on my own. I thought I might do some exploring. I haven't really seen much of Blair Water beside Misty Hollow yet."

"You ought to trot down to Lofty John's bush," put in Aunt Edna, who was looking much livelier these days herself, as though having a bright young thing like Marigold around reminded her of her younger days. "It's beautiful there this time of year, with all the maples turning scarlet and the spruces still dark...marvelous."

"What's Lofty John's bush?" queried Marigold.

"It actually belongs to Emily Kent," said Cousin Mira. "But John Sullivan owned it before she did, and so folks around here still call it that. It's a spruce and maple grove, beautiful place. In fact, some of the Kent children might be around there today. I think they have a daughter around your age, Marigold. You two should get to know each other."

Marigold perked up a bit. As marvelous of a time as she was having with Mickey, she did miss having companions her own age. Budge had only sent her that one careless scrawl, and nothing else. She wrote to Gwennie and Paula and Bernice almost every week, but she did miss having a friend her own age around. "Well, perhaps I'll meander about the bush, then," she said, rising from the table. "After I do dishes, of course."

"Nonsense child, run along," said Aunt Edna, waving a linen napkin at her. "You're not a slave, you know. The dishes will wait. Go enjoy yourself."

Marigold laughed and danced over to drop a light kiss on the top of Aunt Edna's snow-white hair. "Thank you," she said. She threw on her brown knit cardigan sweater and tam and went out the side door, blowing a kiss to the sleeping garden on her way.

"I knew that girl had something in her, if we could just dig it out," said Aunt Edna.


Meanwhile, Marigold found Lofty John's bush easily enough. She started along a darling little rambling path lined with young maple trees. Every step seemed to be bringing her further into a wonderland. The maples were showing off their scarlet and crimson leaves, displaying them proudly against the deep green of the more reserved spruce trees. Ferns, starting to turn brown but still delicate and lovely, laced the edges of the path. Here and there Marigold spotted clusters of glowing ruby bunchberries, dotting the landscape with color. She gathered a small bunch and pinned them to her sweater. She wandered along happily, lost in a transport of delight, when she suddenly caught sight of something white and heard a girl's low laugh.

For a moment, her blood ran cold. She remembered all the ghost stories Lazarre had ever told, and wished she hadn't listened to a single one of them. Then she shook herself and laughed. No self-respecting spook would be haunting during the day. This was probably one of the Kent children Cousin Mira had told her about.

She stepped resolutely forward in the direction of the laugh. As she rounded a particularly large maple tree, a dead branch cracked under her foot. A girl, sitting by a little dimpled pool of water, looked up with a startled face.

Goosebumps erupted all up and down Marigold's arms. "Sylvia!" she gasped.

The next moment she was calling herself a fool. Sylvia was a dream-friend she had invented when she was a very little girl. Marigold hadn't even thought about her since she was twelve. This girl did look startlingly like Sylvia, though: clouds of black hair, deep, mysterious, purplish eyes, white skin, red mouth, even down to the pointed ears.

She smiled up at Marigold, a slow, bewitching smile. "Why, how did you know my name?" she asked.

Marigold had another shock. "You—you are—your name really is Sylvia?"

The other girl stood up, revealing herself to be as tall as Marigold. "Sylvia Kent. Who are you?"

"Marigold Lesley," stammered Marigold. She tried to recover her poise. "I'm sorry; you must think me an awful fool. It's just…you reminded me of an old—friend of mine. Her name was Sylvia as well. What an extraordinary coincidence!"

Sylvia Kent sprang across the little pool and clasped Marigold's hands imploringly. "Oh, don't call it a coincidence," she pleaded. "I hate that word. It's so ugly. Call it…fate. I think you and I were fated to be good friends, Marigold Lesley. What a beautiful name! You must feel yourself to be sister to all the flowers. Come, sit and tell me about yourself and your old friend Sylvia, and I'll return the favor by boring you with all the details of my life."

Somewhat dazed, Marigold allowed herself to be pulled down to the ground. Sylvia crossed her legs, arranged her skirt over them, and looked expectantly at Marigold.

"Well," began Marigold hesitantly, "Sylvia wasn't—well, she's not—she was sort of an imaginary friend." She couldn't believe she had just confessed that to this strange girl.

Sylvia clapped her hands and laughed aloud. "You have imaginary friends, too?"

"No, not anymore!" cried Marigold, anxious to clarify things. "Not for ever so long. I outgrew that."

"Oh!" Sylvia drew in a deep breath. "Oh, how sad! I hope I never outgrow imagining things. Mother still does, and she's quite old. But anyway, I'm glad you used to imagine things, because that shows that we're the same sort of people, and it's so hard to be friends with someone who's not the same sort as you, isn't it?"

Marigold found herself breathless from Sylvia's rapid chatter, but she did like her new acquaintance. She had charm, not like Gwennie or Paula or the Princess Varvara, who temporarily bewitched one and then commanded one's very soul. No, Sylvia was just a darling girl who genuinely wanted to be friends. Marigold opened up and told her all about the dream-Sylvia, Mother, Grandmother, Uncle Klon and Aunt Marigold, why she was in Blair Water, and what fun she was having.

"Mrs. Babcock and Miss Mira are splendid," agreed Sylvia. "And even though I've never met Mickey, he always smiles and tilts his cap when he passes. Mother says he's a real gentleman, despite his rustic ways."

"Now tell me about yourself," begged Marigold. "Don't make me do all the talking, I'll feel so awfully selfish."

Sylvia smiled her slow, mysterious smile and began. "Oh, I could talk about myself for hours, but I won't bore you—at least not right away. I'll just give you the bare bones. The rest you must learn from knowing us. I live with my mother and father and older twin siblings. Mother is known to the world at large as E.B. Starr, the famous novelist."

Marigold's blue eyes grew large. "The author of The Moral of the Rose and the rest of the Applegath series?"

"The very same," laughed Sylvia. "She's just a darling, sweet mother, though. And my father is Frederick Kent, the famous portrait artist. He's just a jolly old dad. Neither of them are a bit proud or anything. Well, Mother's got a bit of pride, but it's from being half Murray and half Starr, and has very little to do with being famous."

"I can't believe I'm talking to the daughter of the woman who created Peg Applegath," said Marigold. She laughed sheepishly. "I seem to be making a terrible idiot of myself today. First I think you're my old imaginary friend, and now I babble like an idiot over your mother. You aren't going to want to have anything to do with me after this!"

"Nonsense!" Sylvia leaned over and hugged her impulsively. "I liked you from the moment I saw you, Marigold Lesley. And I'm half wild with envy over your name."

"Never mind that, tell me more about yourself," urged Marigold. "Any other famous personages in your family?"

Sylvia laughed. "No. Although Cousin Jimmy should be. He is almost a genius, except Aunt Elizabeth pushed him down the New Moon well when he was a boy, and so now he's not 'all there.' But my two older siblings are brilliant. Uncle Dean says that Murray is a true genius. And Sophie wants to be a famous chemist. Can you beat that? I'm the lazy one in the family. I don't have any particular ambition. Oh, I can write a bit and draw tolerably well, but I don't want to make a living of it like my parents do. Rosy Miller—she's one of my closest friends, though we haven't anything in common—says she is going to be a movie star when she grows up, and thinks I should be one too. But look at me! I couldn't ever be a movie star. Rosy has glamour. I don't."

"I think you're splendid," said Marigold honestly. "And you have something better than glamour. You have…have…" she paused. How to describe Sylvia's nameless charm and wordless allure?

Sylvia laughed. "Uncle Dean says that I look just like Mother did at my age—a fair, mysterious visitor from a distant star, here to smile graciously upon the poor mortals and add a touch of other-worldliness to their lives. I have no idea what he means, but I think it's something good."

"Of course it is," said Marigold.


Marigold was flushed and breathless when she got back to Misty Hollow, late, for supper that night.

"Well," said Aunt Edna, eying her shrewdly. "And what good thing happened to you today? Meet a handsome young man, eh?"

"Of course not," answered Marigold with dignity. Although fifteen years old, she still had no ideas of young men as anything but good comrades. "But I did meet a splendid girl—Sylvia Kent, and oh, she's wonderful! I've never had a friend like her before."

"I don't doubt it," said Aunt Edna dryly. "She's queer as her mother, to be sure."

"Now Mother," said Cousin Mira rebukingly, carrying in a platter of roasted chicken. "You know the Kents are very respectable people, and Sylvia is a thoroughly nice girl. I'm glad you met her, Marigold. I'm sure the two of you will be grand friends."

"I hope so," said Marigold, her eyes shining. "She's just splendid."

She couldn't quite find the right words to describe Sylvia—her elfishness, her naive delight with life, her sparkling imagination that colored everything beautiful…she was the type of friend Marigold had always dreamed of finding, but never thought possible. She made every other girl Marigold had ever known, excepting perhaps Princess Varvara, look drab and crude. And yet she was just as sweet and unassuming as could be.

"Sylvia invited me to spend tomorrow with her and meet her brother and sister and their friends. May I, Aunt Edna?" she asked after dinner.

"Yes, of course," said Aunt Edna. "As long as Mickey and Miranda don't need you for anything around here. You mustn't neglect your duties for pleasure, remember that, my dear."

"Of course you may spend the day with Sylvia," said Cousin Mira. "I can get by just fine here, and Mickey doesn't have much to do himself. Have a good time and don't worry about a thing."

"Oh, thank you, thank you both," said Marigold, her face all alight. "Oh, you're both so good to me. I wish I never had to leave here." She rose from her seat and flung her arms around them each in turn before running out to the garden. "I must just tell Mickey all about Sylvia," she called over her shoulder.

Mickey listened politely to her glowing descriptions of her day. In the dusk, Marigold couldn't see the flush that stained his cheek when she spoke of Sylvia, although she did notice that he was much quieter than usual. She assumed he was tired from the trip to Shrewsbury and didn't think anything of it.

"I just know we'll be marvelous friends," she finished enthusiastically. "I'd love to have her come help us work around here sometime. You wouldn't mind, would you?"

"Not much work left, Miss Marigold," he said abruptly, taking his old pipe out of his mouth. "I'm afraid you might have to wait until spring to do much more 'round the grounds."

"Oh," said Marigold, temporarily dampened. "Well," she said, brightening up. "That just means that you'll be able to spend more time with us, won't it? I know you'll like Sylvia, Mickey. And I'm sure she'll like you. She already said you were a real gentleman."

"Did she now?" he asked, before placing his pipe firmly back in his mouth and puffing away for dear life on it.

"Oh yes, and Mickey, you simply must play your fiddle for her, too."

"Don't think she'd like my old scrapings," he said gruffly.

"Don't be ridiculous!" cried Marigold. "They're marvelous. Anybody would like them, especially Sylvia. I know she'd appreciate how beautifully you play."

He finally smiled. "Run along now, you flatterer. I'll play for you and Miss Sylvia if I have the time. You jest go and enjoy yourself with her tomorrow and never think o' me at all."