“Yes,” said little Anne. “I’ll tell him to-day. He’s been to our house ’bout twice each day since Anne’s been at Joan’s. Anne won’t let him come there, nor she won’t send him one word, not even on the telephone by me. Joan told her she’d shake her, maybe, ’cause what was the use of being mis’ble every way? I’ll tell Kit, Mr. Latham. And, Mr. Latham, there’s a quite tall, thin man coming in here. He’s got a bag. Maybe he’s a Mormon mish’nary; they do come like that. This one doesn’t look like one, though; he’s much nicer. He’s got a brown moustache, and a flat, boxy thing, and a bag.”
“Wilberforce!” cried Richard, starting up so violently that he nearly upset little Anne.
That did not halt him. Leaving little Anne to take care of her equilibrium, he rushed into the hall, seized the newcomer by the lapel of his coat and cried, joyously:
“Ted, dear old man, how did you make it so soon?”
“Message came just in time for me to make the last train that connected to get me here to-day,” said Ted. “You look like the mischief, Dick! What has happened that you sent for me in such urgent haste?”
“I’ll tell you the whole story later. It is Anne and I; that’s enough for now. We’ve given it all up, Ted, fortunately,” said Richard.
“Fortunately? Well, you don’t look it! What’s Anne been doing? I know she never went back on anything in her life. So what have you been doing? Though that’s as fool a question as the other,” said Edwin Wilberforce, frowning.
“Ted, I can’t talk about it now. Anne was only sorry for me, and I discovered in time the cruel task she had put upon her blessed little self. That’s all. Have you eaten? Stetson, Stetson, here’s Mr. Wilberforce already! Order him a lunch, will you?” Richard called out of the rear door in the hall. Then he brought his friend into his library, taking his hat and bags, fussing over him with an affection that eloquently told of the relation between the poet and the painter.
“Well, of all things! Where did you find the little girl? I never heard of her,” exclaimed Ted, amazed by the apparition of little Anne sitting stiffly, her hands clasped in her lap, her feet crossed at the ankles, on the arm of Richard’s chair.
“This is Miss Anne Berkley, Mr. Wilberforce,” said Richard with a gesture of courtly dignity for little Anne’s benefit. “She is an intimate friend of mine who visits me often, with whom I play happily, who will some day, she promises, when enough time has passed, come to be eyes to me and help me to write poems and plays. She is a lady who has a vocation which she herself discovered, and which proved to be more significant as a prophecy than she foresaw. Her vocation, she one day announced to her mother, is setting beetles on their feet when they lie, helpless, on their backs. I have been one of her beetles, as I’ll explain by and by. She goes to a convent school, and is in many ways mediæval. She is one of a delightful family, Catholics of the right sort. Anne is staying now with this little Anne’s lovable young matron sister, Mrs. Antony Paul. And that is enough of the History of Queen Anne the Less, isn’t it, little Anne?”