The peace of yielding settled upon Anne. Not to think of anything—to go to sleep—and to-morrow—the high, still mountains—and the old man—like—a—tree. Anne's eyes closed.
"I'll do—anything—you—say."
She was asleep before Belle had quite finished opening the window and arranging the blind so that it would not rattle if the wind came up.
Back beside the bed, Belle stood looking down at Anne.
"Poor little kid," she whispered, "poor little kid, she's rather like the sea herself—crying forever for something out of reach." She smoothed a fold in the sheet and added:
"Poor old Roger—he isn't half bad either."
CHAPTER THIRTY
Roger received Belle's note telling him that Anne had left town and asking him to make some arrangement about the cottage in the same mail that he received the legal notice of Anne's action. Both letters were on his desk when he came back to the loft after dinner to work as he had done every night since that sudden, quiet ending of everything between himself and Anne.
He opened Belle's first and read it slowly, surprise changing rapidly to anger.
Anne had gone away. Where, for how long, why, alone or with Rogie? Belle did not say. The few lines breathed possession of Anne, pushed him aside from all interest or concern in her movements.