Part 2 (2/2)

”What pretty things she has,” said Anne, looking down distastefully at the simple gown and neat but plain garments that the little grandmother was packing into a s.h.i.+ny black bag.

The little grandmother gave her a quick look. ”Never mind, dearie,”

she said, ”just remember that you are a gentlewoman by birth, and try to be sweet and loving, and don't worry about the clothes.”

But as she tied the shabby old hat with its faded roses on the fair little head, her own old eyes were wistful. ”I wish I could give you pretty things, my little Anne,” she whispered.

Anne gave a remorseful cry. ”I don't mind, little grandmother,” she said, ”I don't really,” and for a moment her warm young cheek lay against the soft old one.

A tiny mirror opposite reflected the two faces. ”How much we look alike,” cried Anne, noticing it for the first time. Then she sighed.

”But my hair doesn't curl like yours, little grandmother,” and in that lament was voiced the greatest trial, that had, as yet, come to Anne.

”Neither does Judy's,” said Mrs. Batch.e.l.ler, and Anne brightened up, but when she went down-stairs and saw Judy's bronze locks giving out wonderful lights where they were looped up with a broad black ribbon she sighed again.

When the carriage drove around, Anne caught Belinda up in her arms.

”Good-bye, p.u.s.s.y cat, p.u.s.s.y cat,” she cried, ”take care of grandmother, and don't catch any birds.”

Belinda crooned a loving song, and tucked her pretty head under her little mistress' chin.

”You're a dear, Belinda,” said Anne, ”and so is Becky,” and at the sound of her name the tame crow flew to Anne's shoulder and gave her a pecking kiss.

”Oh, come on,” said Judy, impatiently, and the Judge lifted the s.h.i.+ny bag and put it on the front seat; then they waved their hands to the little grandmother and were off.

It was five miles to town, but the ride did not seem long to Anne. She pointed out all the places of interest to Judy.

”That is where I go to school,” she said, as they pa.s.sed a low white building at the crossroads, and later when the setting sun shone red and gold on two low gla.s.s hothouses set in the corner of a scraggly lawn, she explained their use to Judy.

”That's where Launcelot Bart raises violets,” she said.

”What a funny name!” was Judy's careless rejoinder.

”Launcelot is a funny boy,” said Anne, ”but I think you would like him, Judy.”

”I hate boys,” said Judy, and settled back in the corner of the carriage with a bored air.

But Anne was eager in the defence of her friend. ”Launcelot isn't like most boys,” she protested, ”he is sixteen, and he lived abroad until his father lost all his money, and they had to come out here, and they were awfully poor until Launcelot began to raise violets, and now he is making lots of money.”

”Well, I don't want to meet him,” said Judy, indifferently, ”he is sure to be in the way--all boys are in the way--”

Anne did not talk much after that; but when they reached the Judge's great red brick mansion, with the white pillars and with wistaria drooping in pale mauve cl.u.s.ters from the upper porch, she could not restrain her enthusiasm.

”What a lovely old place it is, Judy, what a lovely, lovely place.”

But Judy's clenched fist beat against the cus.h.i.+ons. ”No, it isn't, it isn't,” she declared in a tense tone, so low that the Judge could not hear, ”it isn't lovely. It's too big and dark and lonely, Anne--and it isn't lovely at all.”

As the Judge helped them out, there came over Anne suddenly a wave of homesickness. Judy was so hard to get along with, and the Judge was so stately, and after Judy's words, even the old mansion seemed to frown on her. Back there in the quiet fields was the little gray house, back there was peace and love and contentment, and with all her heart she wished that she might fly to the shelter of the little grandmother's welcoming arms.

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