"Belle Mitchell, if you go back to that I'll walk straight out of this room."
"Go back to what?" Belle rose and took the rigid little body in her arms. "Oh, come on, Anne, relax inside and out. Run along and have a grand time feeding the chickens and listening to Aunt Het reminisce and thank the Lord for your simple tastes. When are you going?"
"To-morrow."
"Moms know it?"
"Not yet."
The sisters smiled at each other. Then Belle drew Anne into her arms and held her close, her own cheek on the cool blonde hair, her eyes very soft and tender.
"You dear little thing," she whispered, "you dear—breakable—little thing."
Released, Anne tried to laugh, but she was too queerly excited about something that, as soon as she was alone, was going to slip out from behind the wall to which Belle's presence relegated it. The laugh stopped at her lips in a wistful little smile.
"Remember, Anne, if you change your mind you only have to phone me. I always have some cash on hand. You will, won't you?"
"Yes, I will."