“Are you asking me because you think you ought to, or because you really want to?” demanded Miss Cornelia.
“Because I really want to.”
“Then I’ll stay. YOU belong to the race that knows Joseph.”
“I know we are going to be friends,” said Anne, with the smile that only they of the household of faith ever saw.
“Yes, we are, dearie. Thank goodness, we can choose our friends. We have to take our relatives as they are, and be thankful if there are no penitentiary birds among them. Not that I’ve many—none nearer than second cousins. I’m a kind of lonely soul, Mrs. Blythe.”
There was a wistful note in Miss Cornelia’s voice.
“I wish you would call me Anne,” exclaimed Anne impulsively. “It would seem more HOMEY. Everyone in Four Winds, except my husband, calls me Mrs. Blythe, and it makes me feel like a stranger. Do you know that your name is very near being the one I yearned after when I was a child. I hated 'Anne’ and I called myself 'Cordelia’ in imagination.”
“I like Anne. It was my mother’s name. Old-fashioned names are the best and sweetest in my opinion. If you’re going to get tea you might send the young doctor to talk to me. He’s been lying on the sofa in that office ever since I came, laughing fit to kill over what I’ve been saying.”
“How did you know?” cried Anne, too aghast at this instance of Miss Cornelia’s uncanny prescience to make a polite denial.
“I saw him sitting beside you when I came up the lane, and I know men’s tricks,” retorted Miss Cornelia. “There, I’ve finished my little dress, dearie, and the eighth baby can come as soon as it pleases.”