CHAPTER XXIII
A day or two later, Anne wandered alone into the old-fashioned garden. She had just recalled—bit by bit things from the past came back to her—a damask rose at the end of the south walk that was her mother's special favorite. It was bare now of its rosy-pink blossoms and Anne gathered some red and yellow zinnias to play lady with. The red-gowned ladies had their home under the Cherokee rose-bush and yellow-frocked dames were given a place under the clematis-vine; then they exchanged visits and gave beautiful parties.
Presently a slim, black-robed lady sauntered down the box-edged turf walk and stopped near Anne.
"What are you doing, little girl?" she asked.
Anne looked up at the lady. "How do you do, cousin?" she said, scrambling to her feet and putting up her mouth to be kissed. It was one of the cousins, she knew, and it was the most natural thing in the world to see her come down the box-edged walk to the rose-arbor; but whether it was Cousin Lucy or Cousin Dorcas or Cousin Polly, Anne was not sure.
It was Cousin Dorcas and she stared at the child for a moment, too amazed to speak.
"It cannot be little Nancy!" she exclaimed at last. "Child, who are you?"
"Why, of course, I'm little Nancy," Anne laughed.
"What are you doing here? Where did you come from?"
"I am playing flower dolls." Anne answered the questions gravely in order. "I got off the train because I wanted to come home. I thought Aunt Charity and Uncle Richard were here."