“Oh, my sainted aunt!” cried Peter, sincerely shocked. “Anne, for the love of Mike! Mother doesn’t let you go to movies, and you don’t read novels, as far as we know. Would you mind telling me what under the canopy started you on that?”
“Yes, Peter, I would,” said little Anne with melancholy dignity. “It’s not my secret alone; if ’twas my secret alone I wouldn’t mind telling you. I just asked.”
Peter lacked the clue to this quotation from Anne Dallas which little Anne had adopted on hearing it. She had treasured it up to use on Monica the next time that her most intimate friend wanted to be told a secret, but it came in so admirably now that she tried it first on Peter; these bits of beautiful diction fortunately serve more than once.
It had such an effect upon Peter that little Anne esteemed it more highly than before.
“Anne,” he declared, solemnly, “I’ll be darned! I certainly will be darned! Of all the kids! I hope Mother knows what to make of you!”
“Oh, she does! But you didn’t tell me, Peter-two,” little Anne reminded her anxious brother.
“No, and I’m not going to,” said Peter. “You put your problem-play plots up to Mother, or Father, or Father Denny, or someone; I shall not talk to you about such things! Great Scott, what shall we do with you when you’re in your ’teens?”
“You needn’t act’s if I was wicked; it’s not a sin, Peter-two! And when I’m in my ’teens I’ll prob’ly be a Carmelite. The Little Flower went when she was fifteen, and I’ll be eight in October.”
“Well, thank goodness, here comes Mother! You certainly have got on a string to-day, Miss Berkley!” sighed Peter.
Little Anne rushed to meet her. Though she had been talking calmly to Peter, at the sight of her mother all her excitement boiled up again. She threw her arms around Mrs. Berkley’s waist and began to talk as fast as she could.