Anne's lip trembled. "I'm never coming back again, Mrs. Potter, unless—I don't have to come."
The old woman did not answer for a moment and then she nodded. "I know. Well, I don't think, my dear, you'll ever have to come again. You—don't—lose it—once you really get it up here."
She patted Anne's shoulder, but Anne suddenly threw her arms round the other and kissed her. The old woman's eyes lit with pleasure. She said nothing. She rarely did when she understood.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
As she stepped from the train into the roar of the city, Anne straightened her shoulders and smiled:
"Perhaps I'll get to love the racket as much as Belle does."
She let herself into the flat and went noiselessly up the stairs to the hall. In the front room her father was talking to Rogie. She could not catch the words but she heard the baby's crow of delight and gripped the balustrade to keep from surprising the old man too suddenly.
The kitchen was empty but Hilda was on the porch picking dead leaves from a geranium. The kettle was boiling and a bottle of malted milk stood beside the inevitable wad of crochet on the table. Very softly Anne closed the door and waited. In another moment the kettle boiled over and Hilda turned. At the sight of Anne, she stepped back, stared, and then came with a little rush and took Anne in her arms. When she stood away at last, her eyes were full of happy tears, but she said gayly:
"I believe you just love to startle people nearly out of their skins. Well, you certainly did give me a turn. I suppose it was the dog that howled all night, but when I saw you there—for a minute—I almost thought——"
"It was my ghost. Moms Mitchell! You are superstitious."