“That is why I shall be I! That is exactly why I shall be I, and no one else,” Anne murmured. “I might not be myself, but quite another sort of person if I weren’t married to you then, mightn’t I, dear Richard? We shall be married when that wonderful night comes around, and you and I are in the box, little Anne! The play is all done, every word, and you are to see it on its very first night and I shall see it, too, but then I shall be our poet’s wife. Tell your mother and Joan what we have told you, and tell them it is not a secret; they may tell whomever they choose, and so may you, dearie. Are you proud and glad, little Anne? I am.”
Richard, smiling and joyous, got possession of Anne’s other hand. He knew she was talking excitedly to something within herself rather than to the child. He felt her tremble, but he set it down to her sensitiveness. He would have known that Anne would not talk calmly of her approaching marriage, nor of the great First Night of the play.
But little Anne held in her small hands and child brain the clue which Richard lacked. Wonder, dismay, a question crept into her wide eyes as she stared at Anne. She saw what Richard could not see, the tears that were gathering in Anne’s eyes and which she feared might fall on the hands with which Richard held hers so fast that she could not dry the tears.
Little Anne slipped down and around to Anne. With the corner of her handkerchief, bordered with kittens, she painstakingly wiped away Anne’s tears.
“I think I’d better go home,” said little Anne, slowly, all her joyousness gone.
Then Anne knew that her fear that little Anne might betray her by an unwelcome allusion to that memorable morning at her home was groundless.
“Why so soon, little Anne, dear?” asked Richard. “Why must you go?”
“I was first at Miss Carrington’s, and it took too long,” said little Anne. “I’ve got to feed Kitca and ask Mother if she thinks I may go to see the play; I want to know quick. Will it be soon?”
“October is the earliest we may hope for, dear. There’s no end of time to wait!” said Richard.
“I was born in October; maybe I’ll be eight by the time of the play; then I’ll be something different, too. No, I won’t; you don’t see anything when you have a birthday. I remember when I was going to be six I thought I’d change. ’Course not! I didn’t know you’d be married, Miss Anne, darling! I truly must go home. I’ve got to see Mother right away! Honest, Mr. Latham, I don’t know’s I can bear it, I’ll be so happy if I go that night! I’ve got to tell Mother Anne won’t be Miss Anne then; she hates to have me forget to say that! I’ve had one engagement and one wedding this afternoon—the news of ’em. It’s a great deal. I feel a little queer. Good-bye. And I couldn’t thank you no matter how I tried, so I might as well go now.”